This seems to be a place where people tell their stories. From reading through some of these messages, it seems like this forum is more of a community rather than a random assortment of anonymous users. I have a hard time actually detailing my story to people I know, so maybe this will help me.


Me: I am a 23-year old male college student. Last week I had my first and second suicide attempts.

I've been depressed for a long time. I had a happy childhood, but after a while it felt like my sister was verbally abusing me to no end and, even though I never had a troubled relationship with the rest of my family, it felt like I stopped fitting in with them. Things are fine now, but growing up it definitely felt like they were all with each other and I was off on the side.

The first time I thought about suicide must have been when I was in 4th grade. It was after a completely irrelevant and pointless argument with my sister. I hid under a blanket and wished it was made of plastic so I could run out of oxygen and die.

I am 23 now. I was depressed through many of my teen years and most of my 20s so far. I was reluctant to get help because then I would have to tell people about it - and I was reluctant to tell anyone about it because I felt so ashamed about it. It still doesn't feel right talking about it, especially when I have had a pretty good chance at life. I feel like I can never connect with people, though. I will find a true friend only once every year or two but, inevitably, they leave me and decide they are better without me. It has happened so many times and it is different each time but it always happens.

Finally, earlier this month, I became so tired of always being so unhappy and so alone that I gave up. I had been trying for years but after so long I was just too tired and I gave up. I bought a gun. A few days later, I loaded it and pointed it at my heart. It took a little while, but I pulled the trigger. The gun clicked but nothing came out of it. I bought a used gun so maybe I bought a broken one - I don't know - but for some reason nothing came out of this gun. I fell asleep that night and woke up in the morning and tried it again, but again nothing came out of it, so I hurried off to class (late) and went through my day like any other. I came home again that night and was about to try it a third time but then I decided to call a friend and ask him to take me to the hospital. It was nighttime and I'm not too familiar with hospitals but most of it was closed, so we decided that I would stay with him that night and go to the doctor in the morning.

Many people say they have a new perspective on or appreciation for life when they survive an attempt. That is obviously not my case if I tried it again the next day and was close to trying it a third time. I just don't know why I am still here. By what reason or logic am I alive?

Here's my metaphor: Imagine you are in a house that is so dark that you can't even see the other side of the room. Everything is so incredibly dark and all you want is to get out of it. You are searching and searching for a way out for so long. Finally you find a door (suicide) - the only way out that you can actually find. You know it is a bad thing to do but you are just so tired that eventually you give up and you open that door (attempt suicide), only to find a brick wall behind that door. Now what? Now you are stuck there, in that lonely, dark place, with no way out.

After my attempt(s), I started going to a therapist but I don't like him. I've seen him twice and am probably going to switch to another one. I don't need somebody telling me my thoughts and behaviors are "crazy" and that if I want to something to get done then I should get it done. I can figure that much out on my own. Besides, it is mostly him talking and telling me his opinions and analysis after I answer a question he asks but he doesn't give me the chance to tell the whole story. Not very helpful at all. Very invalidating to myself and my experiences. He keeps telling me that I am fixating on the bad things and that things will get better (which is true), but I don't feel comfortable to tell him that when things get better, they're only going to get worse again just like they always do. I am so tired of that. If I told him that, he would just tell me I'm being "crazy" again.

My student health center (separate from counseling) also put me on Fluoxetine (Prozac). I quickly had many side effects (flu-like symptoms, dry mouth, headaches, complete loss of energy and motivation, loss of appetite, loss of libido), so they took me off and soon I am going to try Citalopram (Celexa). We'll see how the new therapist and medication go.

I don't want to die but I just don't want THIS anymore. My best friend - the closest friend I've ever had - has since told me to not talk to her anymore. (She didn't know about the suicide attempt.) I still want to kill myself but I'm not going to for now. I just want to figure out why I am alive. Why did I survive such a fatal attempt with literally no physical repercussions? I do believe in God and if anyone else told me they survived that I would say it sounded like a miracle, but it doesn't feel like a miracle to me. It feels like a sentence: I must continue to suffer on this earth. And as soon as things do get better, they will surely also get worse.

-- F1D0