Sarah Nyhan

It doesn’t make sense. I’m not even supposed to be here.

I tried to kill myself for the fourth time when I was around fifteen years young. I went to school that day. Hoping the pills would kick in. Hoping they’d just make me stop breathing sometime during the day. Like going to sleep. And I’d be gone before anyone realized it. Never to come back. Out of here. Off this train. For good.

I was sitting by myself near the gate to the campus hallways before classes started. By the entrance to the school. Staring down at the floor, out at the outside. Feeling the tunnel closing in on me. The fog taking over. Everything getting farther away. All the sounds becoming more muffled. At peace. Thinking about how it would all be over soon.

And then, that day of all days, Shira and Josh came and stood directly in front of me.

I knew Shira from my Geometry class. This was also her first year at this school. And I admired her. Super smart. And able to talk with everybody – very unlike me.

And then Josh was big and tall – I had a crush on him.

And out of all the days, this is the day they chose to come over and talk to me.

I could barely get it together to talk with them. It felt like I was waking up out of an ice age. My brain was not really processing anything that was being said. I saw them through a tunnel. Their bodies fuzzy. Foggy. I heard them a long way off.

I tried to move. I tried to make my mouth form words. I tried to get my mouth to form a smile.

Because I didn’t want help. I didn’t want to call myself out. I didn’t want to be interrupted. I didn’t want anyone to stop me. I wanted to let it happen. I wanted to let go.

And the two of them stood there with me just a few minutes, but it was enough. Because Shira was so animated and full of life. Exuding joy and happiness. And Josh was pleasant, not a threat.

They treated me like a person who mattered. They saw me. And otherwise I almost always felt completely alone in the world.

But Shira was never mean to me. She was happy. And I didn’t want to kill that happiness in her.

So, even though I wanted to be gone, I didn’t want to do THIS to her. I didn’t want her to ever blame herself. I didn’t want her to live with having been the last person to really talk to me. I didn’t want her to question herself. I didn’t want to potentially screw her mind up. To have her live with thoughts that maybe she could have saved me.

I just didn’t want to hurt her. That’s the only thing that saved me.

I was loathe to come back to this world. I was so close to not waking up again. I didn’t want to have to come back and move and exist here. I was so ready to be gone. But I didn’t want to hurt her.

For that reason, and only that reason, I tried to get myself up. I tried to come back to life. I tried to fight the fog in order to get help.

I was in and out. But somehow, some parts of me got myself to the counselor’s office. Ms. Cox. I’m not sure if she was a Mrs. or a Ms., but I called her Ms. Cox. And I hated her last name. But she was very nice to me before. And she seemed safe enough.

I don’t know why I even knew to go to her. I must have had some interaction with her before, but I have no memory of what it was. Because this period of my life was very difficult. I seemed to sometimes be unaware of things and then just wake up and starring in the middle of my own life. Not really remembering the scenes that previously transpired. And even this suicide attempt was one of those times. I don’t even remember why I wanted to kill myself that particular day. I just woke up to realizing I was shoveling pills into my mouth.

And I don’t remember what happened in Ms. Cox’s office. I just know I saw her but I couldn’t tell her that the medicine from dozens of pills was working its way through my body. Because this was way before any therapy. Before I had words or language. So I couldn’t get the words out. And just went back to class.

The medicine was still slipping me under. But somehow I focused enough to write Shira a note and tell her that I was overdosing. And that I had unsuccessfully tried to tell Ms. Cox that I was overdosing.

Somehow I got the note to Shira. Did I put it in her locker and she saw it between classes? Did I give it to her in passing in the hall? Maybe we had class together? Maybe I saw her in the hall? Again, frustrating that I can’t remember these details.

All I knew next was that I was being pulled out of class and taken to the counselor, Ms. Cox.

Then a lot of activity ensued. I remember walking outside of the high school building with Ms. Cox. She was taking me right away in her personal car to the big hospital in another city.

I felt bad for her. She seemed like a nice person who shouldn’t have to deal with a person like me. A waste of space kid like me. A loser.

But she sat there next to me in the waiting room at the ER. And her kindness gave me another reason to live.

Yet I felt conflicted because I knew I’d be left alone with someone else once she left. And that dread built up in my body so much that I told Ms. Cox I felt sick. She helped me to the bathroom. And helped me as I started throwing up in the toilet.

She probably thought I was throwing up because of the pills. But I couldn’t tell her the real reason.

The next time I woke up, a psychiatrist was asking me the name of the presidents and what year it was.

I was so angry that I had to face another day on this earth.

The only good thing to come out of the whole experience was that the psychiatrist recommended follow-up care for me. Which included counseling. Finally.