By some weird twist of fate, you’re alive. You tried four times in three weeks to ensure that you wouldn’t be, but you are. You’re alive.
You took far too many pills. You thought – you hoped – they would finally end you, but they didn’t. You’re still alive.
A seizure. Cardiac monitoring. Respiratory support. A GCS of 3.
You woke up, but you couldn’t move, and you couldn’t see. Perfectly capable of hearing the bustling hospital bay, yet unable to respond to the two nurses shaking your shoulder and calling your name. You wondered if you were in a coma; you wondered if you were dead. You wished you were dead.
But you weren’t.
Countless injections, dozens of tests, 11 intravenous infusions. Wires and tubes and noisy monitors. Prescription upon prescription of tablets and suspensions to protect your stomach, your liver, your kidneys, your intestines. Days – no, weeks – of abdominal pain, with your body completely unable to tolerate even basic pain relief.
What have you done?
You’re still alive, though. You survived. All of the treatment worked exactly as it should have.
You made it.
And despite every single ounce of you believing beforehand, with absolute certainty, that you wanted to die… you’re finding yourself feeling almost relieved that you didn’t.