The worse days were the morning after what I'd done. No, I wasn't in pain, I wasn't dying, but I wished I was. It was the guilt that got to me. To wake up the next morning disoriented trying to play off that you were struggling to even keep yourself up, trying not to cry and admit to what you'd done in case it finally kicked in later, and embarrassing your family with a failed suicide attempt. I don't remember much, I was told that I was hallucinating, puking, and didn't understand what was happening. I was told that even with the doctors running tests, putting an IV in my arm, and everything else I still tried to act like I didn't know what was happening. I wanted to die and it hadn't happened, I felt like a loser. I was doing something so simple yet I'd failed to even do that. And after blacking out for four days I finally realized what was going on when I was in an ambulance heading eight hours away from home, where they'd end up dropping me off at a mental hospital for the next week.
