On Tuesday I took 32g of paracetamol, 1g of codeine, 3 or 4 pills at a time, chased by white wine. I carved my arms and thighs to shreds and lay down with a film on, hoping to God I never woke up.
I slept, briefly, heart pounding, feeling sick, shaking, vision blurred at the edges. Cut a few more lines with a razor blade, lay back down.
A fountain of vomit, all over the pillows, duvet, me, my clothes. Half dissolved pills mixed with blood, shreds of breakfast, oreos I don’t remember eating.
Smearing the mess around with towels, trying to clean up, trying not to embarrass myself. Soaking up pools of clotted blood, rubbing vomit stained sheets on the mess of my arms and legs. Having a shower with one leg half in my jeans, trailing a blanket like a cape.
Phoning an ambulance, sobbing that I don’t want to die. And I don’t, not right now. Blue lighted to hospital, throwing up bile and blood. Heaving and gagging when there is nothing left. Trying to light a cigarette in the ambulance, laughing manically at the man who takes my lighter, chewing the end of my cigarette and spitting the bits on the floor.
Hours pass, a blur of blood tests, of IV lines, of stitches, of feeling so sick my bones ache, retching up mouthful after mouthful of bile, blood drip, drip, dripping off my fingers.
Sleeping on and off, through repeated questions about who, and what, and why. Through the flicking lights of hospital corridors, squeaking shoes, accents I don’t understand. Just need sleep.
2 days of hospital, of crap, crap food I will not eat. Of the same endless barrage of questions. IV drip in still, drip, drip, drip sugar water and enzymes into my veins, to stop my liver packing up, to stop my heart from forgetting how to beat.
Phone calls to my parents, my best friend, the interview I was supposed to be having. Explaining where I am, what happened. But I’m fine, no sweat, be home soon.
The “I don’t want to die” feeling I’d fading, can’t even kill myself, useless waste of time and effort. Hopeless, failure, idiot, embarrassment, unloveable, unworthy.
Spend two days picking scabs and staring at the ceiling. Finally discharged. Pick up my stuff from the hotel, apologise.
Check bank balance, phone home, apologise.
Buy train ticket, apologise.
On the train. Cancelled. Can’t believe I survived for this. If anything makes you want to die it’s the bloody British transport system.
Next time I’ll jump off a building with a rope around my neck.