Death was my green light.
I was first suicidal at age twelve. When I was twelve, I thought I wouldn’t live to see thirteen. When I was thirteen, I thought I would never reach fourteen. When I was fourteen, I thought I could never get to fifteen.
It was a seemingly endless cycle destinated to end in disaster, in an early grave. I was carrying so much pain and felt utterly alone.
And then when I was twenty-three, I decided I would not make it to twenty-four. I planned it out. I decided I would take all my medications, every single fucking pill, in the space of an hour.
A maximum dose of Rexulti is 4 mg, and I had a bottle of 4 mg tablets. Two pills would have been an overdose. I intended to take all thirty. And that was just one of about seven medications I had meant to take.
I was texting my girlfriend. Miracle of miracles, Marie convinced me to give my medications to my brother for safekeeping. She stayed up with me until past 5 A.M.
More recently, the cycle was broken permanently. Marie broke it. For the first time since I was a 12-year-old, I saw myself as having a real future.
I never had one before, and now I am not quite sure what to do with it. It seems fragile, like I could break it if I hold it too close. I had always spoken as if I had a future, as if I could be this published author. A dream founded on lies. The road to my dreams had been too arduous, instead I sat curled up on the pavement and waited for the next vehicle to end me.
A future. A real future. What are my goals? My girlfriend asked me. I guess, for the first time in so long, my goal is to live.