I'm a survivor

I've wrestled with deciding to post this for several weeks. Some may question why I would post such a private thing on a public forum, and all I can say in my defense is that I need to. To let others with similar stories know they are not alone; to publicly renounce my preoccupation with self destruction; to encourage anyone facing their private demons to seek professional help. Anyway, if this is too dark for you, pass on by. No harm done.

I'm a survivor.I've tried suicide twice. At the time, it seemed like the correct thing to do. It's not that my life was such a mess, although it was stressful. It just seemed like, no matter which way I looked, the future seemed bent toward becoming an emotional drag on everyone that knew me. I didn't want to be remembered as the sniveling whining wreck that I saw myself becoming. I wanted people to think of a funny, clever, hard-working woman with a good husband and two great kids, with a successful scientific career and friends who would miss me. I felt, instead, like I was losing my mind, dwelling on incidents that occurred 50 years ago and about which I (even now) had doubts had ever occurred. Everyone involved was dead but me. If I was dead, too, then it DIDN'T happen, right? And all the madness, the voices, the lost time, the nightmares, the sleepwalking, the cutting, none of it would be real either. And so I took the drugs, after careful research into how much and what would be fatal, and still I lived. Did you know, if you survive a serious suicide attempt and end up in the intensive care unit, that you won't be treated very well by the staff there? You're an anomally, the sick person who did it to themselves, and somehow not deserving of the same sympathy or consideration. They made sure any new nurse coming on-shift knew my background, in very blunt terms, and did it where I would overhear. They handled me roughly, spoke brusquely, wrote me up in their daily notes because I got up "without permission" to use the bathroom. They wrote that I lied about my symptoms (when in fact I was confused and barely aware of where or who I was) and that I was "sullen" (although I can remember smiling at them ALL THE TIME because I so wanted their approval and recognition). If it hadn't been for being closely watched I would have tried to finish the job; my psychiatrist and therapists knew that and made sure I knew that if I had been successful, they and my family would have been devastated. They let me know that I was worth saving. In the end it took a lot of therapy and a lot of work by myself and my therapists, and the love of my family, to get where I could again think of myself in a positive light. I take meds, and probably always will. I can't ever take my mental health for granted, and I watch for signs that I'm slipping before I get too bad. I don't ever want to have to do this again. And I feel overwhelming sympathy with anyone who has ever faced their inner demons and clawed their way back from the edge, for their courage and will power, and I know that when someone is sucessful in committing suicide, it isn't because they are weak or narcissic or pettily vengeful, but because they were in so much pain they literally could not think past it. And I know that once you have taken the step to end your life, you will have crossed into territory that only another suicide survivor can recognize, you are profoundly changed forever in the way you regard life and death. There will always be a residue of that decision to end your life, and you can't unknow what you know from that time. But you can take strength from the beating of your heart, the air in your lungs, the resolve in your deepest spirit that didn't let you go when everything looked the blackest, and you can know that all life is a struggle for everyone. It's how you face the challenge of continuing, how you just pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and move on to the next chapter, that determines whether your story is read as a success or a failure. I'm a survivor.