We've All Gone Crazy Lately

I actually discussed my suicide attempt with someone the other day for the first time since right after it happened. The only other time I ever spoke of it was when I had to, in 1994, the day after I got out of the hospital, when I had a forced psychiatrist appointment. I've certainly told people I tried, of course, but other than the two conversations I've never gone into detail like I'm about to.

I would have walked head on into the deep end of the river.

There were several elements that came into play the night I tried to kill myself. The biggest most obvious factor, of course, was being molested for so long, and finally getting myself away from Mark. I know getting out of his clutches should have been a reason to celebrate, not attempt to end my life, but I was 19 and severely fucked in the head.

When I finally got away from him, it was the spring of 1994. I had actually moved in with him after graduating high school in '93, because he had my head in complete disarray and I felt like I had no other choice. We worked at an Italian restaurant, where I met a woman named Jennifer.

Jennifer and I became friends very quickly when we met. I was just about to turn 19, she was 25 and going to Hiram College to be - wait for it - a shrink. Anyway. Jennifer was the first person I ever told about the situation with Mark. The night I told her, she promised me she would never let him touch me again. A promise that was fulfilled.

The very next day, April 23, 1994, she took me to the hotel where Mark and I were staying and helped me pack everything I owned. As we were leaving, Mark was pulling into the parking lot. We passed, and to date that is the second to last time I ever saw him. I moved in with Jennifer and that summer was the first in 5 years that I was actually able to enjoy.

Sitting like a princess perched in her electric chair.

Jennifer was very good friends with her ex boyfriend, Doug. They would usually go to dinner once a week, and he would come hang out a lot. He and I even became pretty good friends, going to see some local bands that we both liked, or a baseball game, or whatever.

At the time I was way too naive to notice what was actually going on, no question. But she was only the third woman I'd ever had sex with and, well, I wasn't thinking with the correct head.

On October 14th, 1994, I came home from work to find Jennifer and Doug sitting on the sofa. I honestly thought nothing of it because like I said, he was always around. I started heading toward the bedroom to change, and Doug called me back. He asked me to have a seat so we could talk, so I sat in the recliner across from them. I will never forget the conversation. Here it is in its entirety:

Doug: "Listen. We both know Jen wants to have a baby. We also both know that you aren't going to be in her life forever. So she and I are going to try to have a kid. You guys can still date or whatever, but from now on I'm the only one fucking her."

Me: "..........."

Jennifer: "............."

Doug: "We are going to dinner so you can have some time to think about it. We'll talk when we get back."

The entire time, she wouldn't even look at me. She just stared at her hands, folded in her lap. I think that's what hurt the most. She wouldn't even look at me.

It's one more beer and I don't hear you anymore.

I sat in that chair for at least a half hour after they left. I was completely crushed, and simply could not move. For a couple weeks Mark had been calling several times a day, leaving messages on the answering machine that were sometimes frightening, sometimes puzzling, sometimes pathetic. Regardless, it had begun fucking with my head again. Now there was this.

I finally got up from the chair, went to the kitchen, and grabbed a bottle of wine, a can of beer, and a knife, then headed to the bathroom.

Jennifer had lupus, and was on quite a few different medications for it. I opened the medicine cabinet, and emptied every pill bottle into the sink, even the Advil and Tylenol. Then I opened the wine and started shoving handfuls of pills into my mouth, washing each load down with as much wine as I could get in there, until both the sink and the wine bottle were empty.

Next I climbed into the bathtub, and just started cutting. Wrist, thighs, chest, whatever. The knife wasn't the greatest, but determination can overcome a shoddy piece of equipment. And holy hell was I determined. My head started getting pretty cloudy, and I was covered in blood. I opened the beer, said a half assed toast to Jennifer, and passed out.

The pounding on the bathroom door began to stir me from my haze, but not enough that I could really tell what it was. Then Jennifer began to yell, and I clearly remember yelling "go fuck Doug" to her before passing out again. The next time there was pounding on the door it was the paramedics breaking it in.

I really only remember two things about being wheeled out of the apartment in a stretcher. First, Doug was nowhere to be seen. In fact, I never saw him again after that night. The second thing I remember is the look on Jennifer's face as they pushed me past. There was no concern. No sadness. Just pure hate and loathing.

When I got to the hospital my wounds were tended to, and I was given ipecac to make me puke. Throwing up several hundred half digested tablets is bad enough. Having to drink a glass full of charcoal to stop the effects of the ipecac is something I'd rather never repeat.

As I lay there, a nurse asked me who I wanted to call to come get me. I honestly had no answer, because I didn't want my parents to find out, and Jennifer was really my only friend at the time. I stalled as much as I could then finally gave her a phone number. Mark's.

I have tried to rationalize why he was the one that got called, but in reality I was just scared and alone. Jennifer didn't come to the hospital, but that honestly didn't surprise me, with the way that she looked at me, strapped to the stretcher. I had nobody else.

Before Mark arrived I had to have a psych eval to see if I needed admitted to the psych ward. That was one of the most chilling moments of my life, listening to patients that had been admitted scream and wail and moan, while I had to try to convince random doctor guy that I didn't belong in there with them.

Mark arrived and I was released. The whole drive back to the apartment, he didn't say a word. He dropped me off and drove away, and I haven't seen him since.

When I walked up to the apartment I saw a note taped to the door. Simple and to the point, two words: please leave. I walked down to the parking lot and saw that Jennifer had gotten every one of my belongings shoved into my car. I slept right there in the parking lot that night, and the next, then slept at different rest areas on the highway each night for the next week. Finally, I ended up calling my parents and asking to move home.

Butterflies are free to fly, fly away.

I will never forget the events of that night, as much as I wish I could. I know one problem is that I've never talked about it to any of the therapists I've ever seen, and that is something I should probably do at some point. At the same time, it's been almost 21 years. While that night in no way defines who I am, it certainly, undeniably had an impact on how I turned out.

There are still times when I think about ending my life. I won't deny that. Just a few weeks ago I was driving home from work and had a very clear image in my head of taking my car into a concrete barricade while going 80 miles an hour. I had the speed, I just didn't turn the wheel.

Ever since that night I cannot drink wine. I've tried many times, but it's just not going to happen. I also had a very hard time for over a decade just taking meds. Any time I had to take a pill, I would almost throw up. The scars from the knife are faint. The only place you can really see any is my left wrist, and even those are quite difficult to see.

I think about Jennifer from time to time. I wonder if she and Doug ended up getting married. I wonder if they were successful in getting pregnant. I wonder if the lupus killed her.

I hope she ended up doing well. I've thought about looking her up from time to time, but really what's the point? I'll just believe she ended up married with a couple children, and is a successful psychiatrist. I hope it's true.

Title and headers from "Someone Saved My Life Tonight" by Elton John.