One year ago today I killed myself.
The letters were written. Alcohol supplied the necessary courage. The pysch medications, originally designed to help cope with the obsessive thoughts, were crushed into water and consumed. I took a shower to be clean, left a note taped to the mailbox for the postman to call the authorities, and went to sleep knowing I would never again wake up. The deed was done.
No single thought was given to failure.
Through the night I got sick, woke up, crawled to the tub, and tried to drown. Another failure. The rest of the weekend was spent more sick than I had ever been, cleaning the messes, and letting, over and over again, the obsessive thoughts have their way as I waited to see whether my eyesight would return or if the attempt caused permanent damage.
For the next twelve months the obsessive thoughts remained if the need to do away with myself has not. It is a viable solution, death would prevent the thoughts from continuing, but it would damage other people. The only progress made through the course of the year is learning some other solution needs to be found.
I continue to have the obsessive thoughts.
Everything in sight remains a trigger, and the passing of time has not eased the pain the thoughts cause. Someone else might see the year as time enough to dig out from the thoughts, but it has not occurred with me. They’re still there, and they still affect every single moment of every single day. It has been a year, yes, but a year has not been long enough or the thoughts would be gone.
It was important to write something today to have this 17th of January be different from the previous one in the hope doing something else will lead to a different path. The path needn’t be better. I have given up on “better.” It just needs to be different.
For the similarities remaining life still feels like a failure. I don’t know if any 17th of January will ever feel like anything else.