The one thing I hate about attempting suicide is that it is just that: an attempt. This means I have to answer questions later regarding why I did something so “selfish” and so “irrational.” I really think the irrationality of any suicide attempt is the interrogation that comes with the act. Questions start to pile up to the point where I feel like a Jeopardy game needs to be hosted. Unfortunately for me, I’d be a sh*tty contestant.

When my ex-fiancée asked why I attempted suicide, I wasn’t in any sort of mood to answer the question. It didn’t help that she was asking me immediately after I decided to have my life crumble under the weight of an empty pill bottle. The grim thoughts that haunted my soul for years possessed my actions. There was no focus as to what my accolades were, or that I was young and had a long life ahead of me. I was only focused on stopping the trail of thoughts before I had to deal with it for a longer period of time. Each crack in the wall started to become more distant. The sensation of touch was beginning to evaporate. I could hear a scream in the distance of my worried parents, and the last thing I remembered from the scenery was that blue-eyed blonde representation of my lack of standards leave. Blackout number one commenced.

A police officer was standing over me asking me questions about why I attempted suicide. I really don’t think they interrogate criminal suspects while they’re slouched on a couch half conscious, so I do not have the faintest idea why they would ask me questions in that position. My mind flickered for a moment, in the midst of the haziness the Klonopin allowed me to acquire, to be able to answer the question. It was the cliche explanation that is seen in the tragic Oscar-winning love stories. Guy loves girl. Girl then breaks guy’s heart. Guy tries to win girl back. Girl doesn’t take him back. Guy kills himself. Exposition, rising action, climax, falling action and resolution were wrapped up into one word as “her” expelled from my lungs. The cops, paramedics and even my parents were subject to believe this bullshit lie that I laid upon them. The truth is my explanation was too lengthy. The truth is that my pain over the years was too much to handle. I didn’t have the time or the energy to say anymore, and that’s when blackout number two commenced.

Being carried on a stretcher into an ambulance is not the most glorious of ways to exit a house. I wish I had a more dignified exit with a banner, balloons and my family waving at me to get well soon. There was no party, though. The world still kept turning, and I was not the center of it all. The trees were in full bloom. Flowers were bursting with life in a dizzying display red, green, yellow and orange. Birds soared joyously in the cloudless sky. I had little reason to care, for my wings were clipped. Blackout number three commenced. I quickly drank the coal in the hospital room. Blackout number four commenced. I survived another day with my internal war and crossed off another lucky triumph in my battle with schizoaffective disorder.

With any suicide attempt, life still goes on. I entered and exited hospitals. I visited doctors. I have been in and out of relationships. Life still went on for me. If the suicide attempt was successful, it would have went on for everyone else. I'm still struggling. I'm still human. For anyone else that has attempted, or has succeeded, trust me, it's not selfish. Sometimes the mind cannot cope with the painful thoughts that cloud the logic. I have to constantly think that, no matter what, life still goes on. It's something special, and I am excited to see what's next.