Suicide Watch

7:17pm. I’ve not long got out of the shower, Blink 182’s ‘Adam’s Song’ is playing on shuffle and I’m completing my prework nightly routine of sorting my uniform out when I catch my reflection in the mirror.

Christmas has been kind to my heart, my waistline? Not so much. That’s not what has caught my attention.

Friday 13th January marks my 23rd birthday. A birthday I should technically not be here to see.

The white/silver slashes around my hips and the carvings on my wrists tell a story of a past I’ve learnt to embrace and grow from. They serve as a reminder of what I’ve been through.

The large white ones I remember well. I remember the tears when submersing them in the water in our bath, the sheer pain that made me want to scream.

It’s been nearly 7 years since I hit rock bottom. The poignant words in Adam’s Song have brought back a wave of memories I had once locked away.

Suicide is a difficult thing to address and talk about for anyone.

At 16, I had given up all hope. I was suffocating. I was miserable with my entire life. Tears no longer helped and I remember being numb beyond belief.

It was the day before my GCSE Chemistry exam but that was the last thing on my mind. I’d cried so hard I was verging on throwing up. I was inconsolable. Life was too much and there was no up, no light, I just wanted to sleep.

I was sitting in my pyjamas on my bed, my antidepressants in one hand and water in the other. It was the only option. In my mind at least.

30 tablets gone. I felt…relieved. Soon it would be over and everyone would be happy that I wasn’t there or so my thought was.

20 minutes later, I was sitting on my bedroom floor. Should I write a note? Should I tell someone why I did it? Will my mam blame herself?

That’s what got me. My mam.

I’m the youngest and her only girl. The thought of her finding my lifeless body brought me to my senses. She loved me no matter what. I was her baby *still am*.

It took more courage to walk down those 15 stairs than it did to swallow 30 tablets.

The look on her face. The crumbling, distraught look.


I spent 4 hours in the hospital waiting room. Apparently, it’s very difficult to actually kill yourself with my antidepressants which, in hindsight, is a Godsend.

Hours of blood tests marked the beginning on my night.

‘Do you know how stupid you were? You could have killed yourself?’

‘I know. That was the point’

I was too emotionally and physically drained to be dealing with the doctor’s ‘tough love’ approach to be anything other than a snarky bitch.

I spent the night in hospital. Hourly blood tests to check my liver *no permanent damage*.

My mam didn’t stay the night. A decision she says she will regret for the rest of her life, she would have been watching me sleep and have my bloods taken constantly so I never held a grudge.

It’s a long time ago now, almost another lifetime ago. I’m a different person, a more positive person *not that I could have been anymore negative*.

If you hold on and decide you need to live, if you’re determined, you will get better.

It’s hard. Hell, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Living when I didn’t want to but, bloody hell, it has been worth it.  Every birthday is a gift I don’t deserve.

If in doubt, if you ever need to laugh or smile, google Chicken in Pants.


Hopefully, real smiles will soon be gracing your face.




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