The day I wanted to kill myself was a Tuesday in October. I lay in bed holding a box of sleeping pills in one hand and a knife in the other. On my table next to the bed rested a pair of scissors and a rope that I had spent hours untangling. My eyes were fixed at the fan. The room was dark with all lights turned off;
it was locked from the inside and as is obvious, I was alone. In my mind there was a voice; she had lived there for quite a few years now. At first, she used to visit every now but then on a fateful (am I sure?) day 4 years ago, she came and never left.
The day I wanted to kill myself was a Thursday in February. It was raining heavily and when the world was busy in celebrating love, I was busy in contemplating the point of my existence. I didn’t have any pills or weapons at my dispense but I kept my eyes at the bottle of phenyl wondering what possibilities it can have.
The day I wanted to kill myself was a Saturday in May. It was a hot day and I sat staring into space trying to figure out a safe way of downing all the doctor-prescribed sleeping pills without arousing a doubt in the minds of my family.
On all the days I wanted to kill myself, I was trying to wrap my head around the idea of having to say goodbye to my family and my friends. But did I really have to? I sat there in the dark with eyes so dry, there wasn’t even a single tear to accompany the gut-wrenching pain in my chest. My mind was a plain canvas for the voice in my head and she painted it with thoughts that were so red and so black—they bled and they were dark.
On Tuesday, I got up, walked across the room, checked the locks again, placed a chair below the fan, and then went back to rest on the bed. On Thursday, I googled the amount of phenyl I would have to drink to die while resting on the bed. On Saturday, I stared at the ceiling imaging myself walking to the cupboard and eating the mouth dissolving pills like candy—all the while resting on the bed.
I wasn’t as much resting as observing, as a helpless spectator, the war between my thoughts. My head could have easily exploded. 12 years of low self-worth, abandonment, and heartbreaks was finally giving up and I was ready. I was ready to go through with it. I was ready to make that one loop; that one cut; to take those extra pills, to drink those extra tonics. I wanted to stop existing. I wanted it to stop—the voice, the thoughts, the pain, the dryness. I wanted it all to stop.
Did it matter? Did it matter that I had everything prepared—I had the sharpest knife, the tightest rope, the strongest pills? Did it matter that I had oh-so-conveniently been forgotten and the world has moved on like nothing ever happened? Did it matter that finally on this day, I had mustered the courage to do what that voice had been telling me for 9 years?
Yes, it did. It did matter.
But none of it mattered more than the fact that on all the days I wanted to kill myself, I didn’t.