Monday, 8 June 2015

My Cry for Help

Image "Help!" by Lydia
Let me be clear, my suicide attempt was not a cry for help. It was a surrender, a complete abdication of my will to live.

My cry for help came on September 3, 2014. It came after.

I knew that my life was being saved on September 2; however, my brain, addled by the effects of the drugs I'd taken, denied me the ability to fully comprehend what this meant. In retrospect, this created a wonderfully serendipitous mental silence. The incessant negativity of my inner voice was stilled giving my battered psyche the opportunity to rest that had been denied for so long.

For hours, I drifted in and out of consciousness, steeped in the stimulus, the life, of the emergency room, gifted with this stillness of mind. The seeds of hope and of the will to live took root and, when the effect of the drugs wore off in the wee hours of September 3, my thoughts had clarity, a clarity grown from the strength within these seeds, the strength that The Black had sought to suffocate.

This brought its own terror: after trying so determinedly to kill myself, how do I now face life?

That is when I cried out for help.

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