No longer as truthful as should be deserved, some names, places and events deliberately vague to protect identities that aren't mine

Sunday, 5 October 2014


Warning: very blunt and graphic post about attempting suicide last Thursday.  Feel free not to read if this makes you uncomfortable.

So, I'm alive.  I'm not particularly happy about that fact, but I am alive.  I'm currently sitting at home in bed with a plaster cast over my arm, with a nice glass of wine by my side to write to all down.

A failed suicide attempt is unbelievably frustrating.  And worse it seems to reinforce the idea that no matter what, Eddie survives.  Even when I don't want to.  Even when I actively take significant steps to ensure I don't.  Fate somehow conspires to find a way that means I just somehow make my fucking way through it all.  It gives me some level of satisfaction and amusement that all of my flatmates, in the midst of rescuing me, thought: "oh man hes gonna be so pissed at us when he wakes up"

I slit my wrist.  I called in sick, ate a good meal cause there was no sense in being hungry, mailed some friends' belongings back to them, played some video games, and sat around with my housemates for a bit.  Then I went for a long bath.

I took 40 tramadol.  Tramadol is not the drug to try and overdose on.  You need bucketloads of them.  the pharmokinetics also aren't suited to overdosing.  If you do manage to take enough to kill you its a long drawn out painful process over several weeks from destroying your liver.  I didn't take tramadol to die.  I took tramadol to numb the pain and give me a nice light headed pass out type feeling.  I slashed my wrist to die.  I wanted to bleed out in a nice warm bath, just.... slip away.

It doesn't hurt as much as you expect.  I mean yes I had a lot of painkillers in my system, but threes an intense sharp pain as the blade suddenly pierces through all your skin, and then you re through all the nerve endings.  I knew I hit the artery because blood was spurting a good few inches out in a pulsing fashion. It was nice to watch.  I experienced no panic.  I was content.  All I had to do was watch the beauty of my blood swirling underwater and wait.  It's so easy.

When you do it with a sharp scalpel it's a really clean cut too.  The skin just parts.  No inflammed distressed layers, all one clean incision that naturally pulls apart.  The psychs were really concerned about where i got the scalpels from - you can buy them freely online; it's easy.  I have a supply from my edgeplay kink.  The plastic surgeon who fixed my hand is very disturbed at home accurate I was; I told him categorically, I did not cut any tendons.  It's really obvious what tendons feel like - they're stringy and elastic and push back and pull on nerves designed to sense pressure.  Arteries don't do that.  Anyone knows me knows that while I have no formal medical training, I have a very good working knowledge of anatomy.  I deliberately made the incision in the gap between the wrist tendon and the thumb tendon, towards the radial artery, knowing that artery is protected behind the wrist tendon.  I knew full well what I was doing.

In the end, I avoided any tendon damage.  I did cut the radial artery but it was repairable.  The bleeding was eventually staunched by the trauma to the muscles in my wrist at the incision point causing swelling to close underneath the wound.  I nicked a small nerve causing very minor damage to the base of my palm.  A 1cm line feels numb.  This may heal over time or may be permanent.  As collateral damage goes it's pretty inconsequential.

I never fully lost consciousness.  I was very out of it, and perhaps with a bigger cut, or 20 more minutes before my flatmates found me, I'd have gone under enough for it to have been too late; I was certainly slipping into the depths of respiratory depression by the time they found me.  The last 2 days in hospital are a haze.  Let me be clear though - I'm not happy to be alive.  Surviving was never my intent, this was not a cry for help or attention, surviving is, for lack of a better way of putting it, is supremely inconvenient.  The feelings have not gone.  I still feel no desire to fight it all any longer, nor do I have the inclination to try and find a new reason.   I am done.  I am still suicidal.   Just because I have not picked up the first knife I've come to does not mean I'm no longer actively suicidal.  The only thing I've learnt is I simply need to be more effective next time.  If you're going to do it, don't settle for second best (this was not my preferred method of suicide you must understand), get it god damn right.

Obviously, I've hurt friends with my actions, in fact I've probably hurt them more by surviving.  This was never about friends.  I know I have friends.  I know they will listen to my woes.  I know they love me.  I know I inspire them as much as they inspire me.  But even with all that, I'm fed up, I'm tired, I'm bored.  I have given the very best I knew how to or thought I could and it has not been enough.  I am dead on the inside.  I have no investment in feeling alive again and I've realised that I honestly haven't for  10 years now.  Things have cropped up to hide those thoughts from me, but the sentiment has always been there, rearing its head every few years at the first opportunity.  I simply do not have a strong desire to live.

That said, I still very much appreciate and recognise what people have done the last few days.  my flatmates saved me.  I don't have to like it but I can appreciate the actions of them all.  My roommate has practically not left my side for 3 days.  People joke that we're a couple.  There's no romantic love between us, but platonic love does not cover it enough.  He best puts it as "I'm accustomed to you".  He has spent every moment he was allowed to by my side, holding my hand, even out of it, i remember him telling the rest of my house HE would be going in the ambulance with me, a friend wrote me to say just how much he admires me, a twitter friend who I've never met but we share a lot of common interests and so seem to get on well has been following my twitter feed for days and messaging me constantly.  He's seen me grow increasingly dark and immediately put two and two together.  I am not happy to be alive, but I fully recognise what these people and more have done for me the last few days and I am grateful to be surrounded by such people.

I am not an immediate danger to myself.  I will, unfortunately, survive for now, just as I always do.  I may have to wait, and plan more, but I will simply ensure there isn't a chance for failure next time.  It's so very easy after all.

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