On the 26th October 2014 I tried to end it, to kill myself. I took a shit tonne of paracetamol and Ibuprofen and cut my arms up real bad. Then I went to sleep, hoping to never wake up again.
I awoke to banging on the door, somehow the University security staff had been informed! How? I’d told my friend what was going on the night before, she must have ratted me in! She’s always been the one who’s told people stuff, even though I haven’t wanted her to, why does she always do that? I know really that it’s because she cares for me and doesn’t want to lose me, but I can’t accept that, not yet anyway, maybe not ever. I stumble out of bed to open the door before they unlock it from the outside.
“Are you Sara-Kate? … Are you alright? We’ve been told..”
Anyway, I showed them a list of what I’d taken the night before.
“We need to take you to hospital”
“No! I can’t go to hospital, I’ve got a date with someone in an hour!”
It’s ridiculous really that at that moment when my life was on the line I was still thinking about pleasing people and making sure I didn’t let anyone down. Anyway, half an hour later and I was in the hospital waiting room, waiting to see the triage nurse.
My parents turned up for the most awkward meeting on my part. They were crying and happy to see I was still alive. I had a few blood tests and got my arms patched up before I was assigned a bed and had the antidote going into my bloodstream. I had to stay the night in the end which wasn’t the most enjoyable experience, it was pretty lonely, and yet I’ve often wanted to be back there. I like the smell of hospitals and I think it was also the whole being looked after thing that I appreciated too.
Right now, I feel pretty shit. Like I might attempt something, but I should be fine. It should pass.
Anyway, that’s what happened on my closest brush with death, my worst attempt. xoxox