Suicide, failure, living to succeed even if it took a little while

March 26th 1985 in a fit of manic depressive cycling at age 16 I tried to kill myself by taking over 250 aspirin, as well as every other pill in the house (thankfully no tylenol) and half of a gallon of wine as fast as possible. Thankfully the wine was more than my body could handle and after absorbing enough medicine to do long term damage to my nerves but not kill me the wine brought up the meds and a tearful call to my grandmother claiming that I didn’t mind dying alone but didn’t want to be sick alone brought a furious woman with syrup of ipecac and a stern telling off.
Tonight I realized something.
Less than 2 months from that day the man I would eventually marry was born on May 6 1985.
I didn’t meet him til 24 years later and we became involved on what I suddenly realized tonight was the 25th anniversary of my thankfully failed attempt to end my life.
In those 25 years I faced a hell of a lot of pain, I dealt with severe mental illness, emotional abuse, I was hut many times over and often at my own hand and by my own stupidity BUT I never tried to take my own life again and now I know why.
There was still some small part of me that no matter how beaten down knew that my only chance for things to get better was to stay alive and keep trying.
And I was right.
You might think 25 years is too damn long to wait for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but an eternity of not even a chance of finding that is what I would have had if I had succeeded that day.


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