Fourteen

During the spring of my 15th year, I tried to kill myself.

I remember the bottles. We had plenty of drugs left over from my mother’s treatment, and in particular I remember grabbing a bottle of Entropen, a muscle relaxant. I’m spelling the name wrong. I also poured a few other pills in the bottle. It’s likely luck that most of these drugs were not at 100% efficacy.

I waited until lunch. There was a park next to my school “St. Mary” not “St. Mary’s”. They told us why once, and I never understood. I suppose the didn’t want to denote ownership, just memory. The park next to the school was city property, but we congregated there at lunch. It’ was quite lovely actually, with a stream, and big open green spaces.

I was there with a few friends, who watched as a sat on a swing, swallowing pill after pill dry. To this day, I can’t stand to do that.

They did nothing. They went on with their day. I suppose I was likely unapproachable, and being bigger than most kids, they maybe didn’t want to get involved? I tell myself these things sometimes, so that I won’t still feel that horrible shit feeling that no one cared.

Nothing happened that afternoon, so I figured the drugs were bad, and went on with my day. When I got home, I wandered off to the local rink to watch hockey. (Hey, it’s what you did then).

Suddenly my feet went out from under me, and I could barely stand. I pulled myself up, went outside to sit down. I caught my breath and went home. I decided to do the dishes then. I kept falling down. What an odd feeling it was, your feet and legs refusing to listen to you. My father came home,and commented that I seemed sick, and I should go to bed.

Sick.

My ears had begun to ring as I fell into bed.

I slept and slept and slept. I wish I could say that I almost died, and I saw a light, and my mother, and everything was a nice moment and I can back revitalized and happy. Nothing proved my atheism wrong. Nothing gave me hope.

It was black, blacker than anything I’ve ever seen. I remember feeling like I was just hanging somewhere, suspended in some sort of limbo. Everything was black. There were no dreams, it was not a normal sleep. I firmly believe that I was dying, and yet not.

I woke up midway through the next day, to a glorious blue sky, and a ringing in my ears that took 2 days to disappear. I decided that for some reason, I hadn’t died. But the black taught me lessons, along with the people close to me who did nothing. Although I’m sure even if my Dad had his suspicions, he wasn’t able to do anything about it.

I learned that no matter what, I was alone with myself, and had myself to rely on.
I learned that at the end of it, no one cares and you need to force yourself to live for you.
I learned that I’m not scared of dying, but not in a hurry to see if there’s something on the other side of that black. Part of me is very much afraid that the blackness is all there is.

I find it so odd that while my school paid so much attention to my anger issues, they didn’t see this. That my friends didn’t tell anyone. That my Dad thought me falling down everywhere was just the flu, or my kidneys. I find it very sad that no one seemed to do anything about it.

Contrast that to when my friend tried, and I was able to save her. We were to get together one night, and she didn’t call. That wasn’t odd, so I called her. She was slurred, and sleepy, and I eventually got it out of her that she had taken a bottle of pills, washed down with beer.

Ah, the side effects of coming out in a small town.

I called my brother, I called another friends Mom. We drove to get her, carried her out of the house, drove her to the hospital. I’ll never forget having to half drag her down the stairs, or try to explain to my other friend’s 6 year old sister what Isabelle had done, and why I was crying.

She was ok, but she hated me for the charcoal. If anything, I think this and the counselling helped her father accept who she was. She came out stronger for it.

I went on with my life, wondering where my saviour was.