Let me be clear, my suicide attempt of September 2, 2014, was not a cry for help. It was a surrender, a complete abdication of my will to live.
My cry for help came on September 3, 2014. It came after.
I knew that my life was being saved on September 2; however, my brain, addled by the effects of the drugs I’d taken, denied me the ability to fully comprehend what this meant. I just went with the flow.
One element of this flow was entirely unexpected. At some point during the struggle to save my life, I experienced a wonderfully serendipitous mental silence. The incessant negativity of my inner voice was stilled giving my battered psyche the opportunity to rest that had been denied it for so long.
For what seemed like hours, but was probably a mere instant, I drifted in and out of consciousness, steeped in the stimulus, the life, of the emergency room, gifted with this stillness of mind. The seeds of hope and of the will to live took root. When the effect of the drugs wore off in the wee hours of September 3, my thoughts had clarity, a clarity grown from the strength within these seeds, the strength that The Black had sought to suffocate.
This brought its own terror: after trying so determinedly to kill myself, how do I now face life? What do I do now?
That is when I cried out for help.