Warning: Elizabeth speaks her mind, and sometimes uses profanity. Please understand that this profanity is rooted in very intense pain, and to allow the impact of her story to be properly conveyed, I have left the profanity in place.
So, please be forewarned that there is profanity in this story.
The story itself concerns a suicide survivor who has struggled with suicidal feelings and has attempted suicide.
She also has a tendency to put herself down in rather harsh (and completely inaccurate) ways – but she is expressing what she actually feels. Filtering these aspects would diminish the impact of her story. And Elizabeth and I agreed that to truly help people, they would need to understand what she was actually feeling because, undoubtedly, there are innumerable people who have experienced, or are experiencing, the same thing; and reading this story will thus give them hope.
Please be advised that this story may be too intense for some readers.
Discretion is advised.
Here is her story:
I could not stop screaming. It was the most horrible thing I have ever seen in my life: my precious Melissa, lying on her bed in a pool of blood.
I had been out shopping, and when I came home I called out to Melissa, but she didn’t respond; so I went up to her room and found her. She had just died by suicide.
I eventually ran downstairs and called 911, but I could barely talk. I was hysterical. I remember the dispatcher saying over and over, “Calm down, calm down.” But how in the hell could I calm down when my baby just killed herself?
Somehow I told them what happened, slammed down the phone, and ran back up to be with my baby. I then thought that maybe, just maybe, Melissa might still be alive. So I started to give her CPR. I was shaking and crying, and I kept telling her to wake up.
But I quickly realized that there was no hope – she was dead.
She was just a teenager.
And I knew that I couldn’t let her leave this world without me. She needed me.
So I decided to kill myself before the cops arrived. Then I could be with Melissa. I stared at the handgun. And I just kept staring at it. My mind raced. I looked at my beautiful baby and then looked at the gun. But for some reason I just couldn’t kill myself. I felt like such a coward to not be able to pick up the gun and end my life.
So I ran downstairs and started pacing the floor, crying hysterically. It wasn’t long before the police showed up, and then an ambulance.
Then I realized I missed my opportunity. I could have been with Melissa. They could have removed BOTH of our bodies together. They could have had our funeral together. They could have buried us side by side.
So why in the hell didn’t I kill myself when I had the chance? I’ll tell you why, because I am a weak person.
I had nothing to live for.
So I should have killed myself.
And I should have been able to prevent Melissa’s suicide. I knew she was having problems, but dumbshit me was too preoccupied with my own little meaningless life.
The suicide was my fault.
What a stupid moron I was. Why in the hell didn’t I put the pieces together?
I will never forgive myself.
I didn’t get Melissa the help that she needed and now she is dead. I hate myself. I deserve to be dead.
That day was just the beginning of my hell. I was a crazy person. I mean really crazy. My brain didn’t function; my emotions were destroyed; and even my body felt weird. In short, I was a total zombie. I was numb, and I barely felt alive.
So, the rest of that horrible day was completely fucked up. I had to deal with the cops, the hospital, and then call people to tell them about the suicide. I mean, this was worse than a nightmare.
I just wanted to die.
Shelly, my best friend, made me stay with her for a while; and I can guarantee you that I would have killed myself that first night if it weren’t for her.
Somehow, I just opened up to her. And all of this shit started pouring out. I not only talked and talked about Melissa, but I babbled endlessly about all of the problems in my life. It’s like my mind and my mouth were completely out of control.
I just kept talking, and crying. But I felt horrible. I couldn’t eat; I couldn’t sleep. But somehow I managed to drink some water.
I felt so wired.
And I wasn’t ready for what was coming next: Melissa’s funeral. I couldn’t handle that either.
This was just too much for me.
I just kept thinking about ways that I could kill myself. I thought about overdosing, jumping off a bridge, or shooting myself in the head. There was NO doubt in my mind that I was going to kill myself. It was a done deal. First, I needed to be with Melissa. Second, I needed to end my shitty life, because I hated it. And third, I needed to punish myself for causing Melissa’s suicide.
I decided to wait a while before I actually killed myself, because people were coming in for the funeral, and I just couldn’t do it then; but I was determined; my mind was made up. I was going to die by suicide, and this fucking life would be done for good!
The days went by like a blur. I was so out of it at Melissa’s funeral that I could barely function. Now I was having difficulty talking. Just a few days ago I couldn’t shut up, and now I couldn’t talk. I was convinced that I was going crazy, which made it even more clear to me that I had to kill myself.
And I was feeling guilt that was so overwhelming that I just could not cope with it.
The guilt cut into me like a knife. I could FEEL the pain from the guilt. It was actually a physical pain. My chest and abdomen hurt. My back ached. And I knew, without a doubt, that it was the guilt. It was eating me alive.
And I deserved that pain, and much, much more. What a horrible mother I was. I let my baby die. The suicide was my fault. I am a failure, both as a mother, and as a human being.
It would be such a relief to be dead. I knew I needed to kill myself. I did not deserve to live.
And I started to have nightmares. I started to relive Melissa’s suicide. I couldn’t get the image of her dead body out of my mind.
It haunted me.
Sometimes my heart would race when those horrible images came to mind. My heart would pound like it was going to break through my chest. And I would shake and sweat. Just like I did on that horrible day.
I hated these “episodes,” or whatever the hell they were. It was one more reason that I needed to kill myself. Life was now being very cruel to me. Replaying this horrible event over and over. The image trapped me. It was killing me.
I had to kill myself.
I reluctantly got into therapy. I always thought that going to a shrink was for people who were weak; but I was convinced to go.
I didn’t like my therapist. He was a prick.
But my head was so messed up that I just kept going back to him. Three miserable times a week. Shit, the wrong therapist can screw your head up more than just about anything.
So the “therapy” was making me WORSE.
I know I should have left right away. But I was too much of a zombie back then. And my self-image was just too low to act.
After all, I did hate myself.
I became my own worst enemy.
So I went to see Mr. Shrink, and I talked and he listened. It was like I was talking to a fucking wall. He didn’t help me at all. He didn’t diagnose me with anything. Didn’t give me any medication. The fucker barely even talked. I just sat there and blabbed to this dumbshit, and he didn’t even pay attention to me.
He did take my money, though.
But I had a plan. In due time, I was going to overdose on a nice combination of medications that I had assembled.
But I had to get my shit in order first. I had to write a fucking will and finish some last minute bullcrap.
But it gave me quite a bit of relief to know that I would be dead soon.
I was so tired of telling people about Melissa’s suicide.
I hated my job.
I hated myself.
I hated life.
And I missed Melissa.
Why the fuck should I keep living?
After a few more months of the same old bullshit, I set the date for my suicide.
It was going to be on a Friday night. So when that wonderful Friday came along, I went out to dinner by myself to celebrate. I actually enjoyed the dinner ONLY because I knew I would be dead soon. The food tasted good. I felt content. I wanted to die.
I then came home and took a bath. I was more relaxed and more at ease than I had been in years. I turned on my favorite music and got into bed.
Staring me in the face were the bottles of medication that I was going to take. I put a few tablets from each of the bottles in my hand, swallowed them with water, and prepared to die.
I did not hesitate.
I fell asleep rather quickly afterwards, but a few hours later I woke up with terrible stomach cramps and I vomited.
I started crying and thinking about Melissa.
I couldn’t believe what I just did. I tried to kill myself.
But now I didn’t know if I was going to survive or not. I don’t know why, but all of a sudden I wanted to live. At least for a while longer.
And then I did something I hadn’t done in ages. I prayed.
I was an atheist. But I just started praying.
And then I started to talk with Melissa. Just like she was in the room with me. And then I got up and walked to her room, and I opened the door.
I had not been in her room since the suicide.
I walked over to her bed and touched the pillow.
I picked up a picture of the two of us and embraced it.
I then went to her closet and put on one of her favorite shirts.
And then I just started touching everything in the room. I opened drawer after drawer and touched her belongings. And I kept talking to her.
A few hours passed by and I was struggling to stay awake. So I laid down on Melissa’s bed and fell asleep.
When I woke up, I knew I had hit bottom and was on the way up.
The “suicide attempt,” or whatever the hell it was, made me hit the lowest point of my life. Shit, that was stupid. I almost killed myself.
I pledged then and there to NEVER kill myself. And I wouldn’t do so because Melissa wouldn’t want me to.
I got rid of my asshole shrink a few days later and found a woman therapist who was extremely cool. I also started to see a psychiatrist.
It didn’t take them very long to figure out that I was suffering from severe clinical depression and PTSD.
So they gave me some meds, and holy shit that changed my life. I couldn’t believe it. I thought I was transformed by the suicide attempt, but that wasn’t the case. That just woke me up a bit, the medications are what transformed me. I was mentally ill and didn’t realize it.
I actually started to feel happy.
I also started to socialize again.
I remember the first time I went to a night club with Shelly and we did some dancing. I felt like a new me. I had so much fun. And Melissa was with me. My baby Melissa was with me. She was dancing with me. My angel was with me. We danced together. I could feel her by my side.
I kept telling Shelly that Melissa was there dancing with us and Shelly kept saying to me, “Yes, I know.”
It was wonderful.
I know that I am worth something now.
I am a special person.
God made me a special person.
And I may never understand why God called Melissa home, but that is okay. Melissa is an angel in Heaven. God needed her there.
Shelly and I went through a commitment ceremony together and we are going to be partners for life. I love her very much.
And Shelly and I are thinking of having a child someday. I don’t know when, but one day. And we both have agreed that we want a baby girl.
And we are going to name her…
Life is worth living.
I am glad to be alive.
Story shared by Elizabeth [surname withheld] and Kevin Caruso
If you or someone you know may be contemplating suicide, please call 911
Help Hotlines: 1-800-273-8255 or 1-800-784-2433
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