A funny thing happens when you’ve ‘failed’ a suicide attempt. In the weeks following the aftermath of your almost-tragedy, those that hear the truth will open up to you with their own tales of struggles, heartbreaks, fuck-ups, and failed dreams. You will find, in this moment, a bouquet of vulnerability blooming before you. The petals of personal details from acquaintances, sometimes even strangers, will stretch to meet you. They will shed their vague, naive layer of skin – the kind we usually swear to protect and polish – to know you. Even those you have known for the longest time and have loved you the most will struggle to feel their way through the dark road of your hellscape. They will walk down your darkened, beaten pathways with a lit candle, asking:
What can I do? How can I help? How can I show you I love you?
But the day I tried to end my life, another funny thing happened. A gelatinous sphere engulfed my whole body, mind, and soul. Swallowed on impact. I was, all at once, absorbed into this orb that numbed my heart and ears. Time stopped. My mind emptied. I felt nothing.
As I told my loved ones, one-by-one, the truth of the attempt, I tried to open myself again. I cried, listening to the professions of love and, equally, of heartbreak from those around me. I read the messages of sympathies and condolences over and over, reassurances of support and accommodation that I should never hesitate to ask for.
But I was gone. I was far. Suspended adrift from shame, and joy. Anger and sorrow severed and diced into space. The distance between my heart and my body was continents away. If I could have stood in the ocean of love, my feet would have only grazed its surface and never felt its depth. Such is the nature of the jellosphere, this full-bodied numbness.
Now, five months between myself and the day my life changed, I am still somewhere in the sphere. Time has started again, but a hundred times slower than before. Emotions strike me as an arrow through water, and only with my permission. My memory – all of it, from all my life – is fractured in broken mirror pieces around my brain. Every time I think I can discern an image in the reflection, it flees. The feeling of it remains, rises like hot air within me, and blazes across my eyelids before passing through me like a sigh. This slowness and stillness feels more peaceful, or at least more manageable. Though I wonder how long this will last…
The truth is, I did die that day. My soul erupted in metal and smoke. I snuffed it all out almost as soon as it lifted and every last bit of me was gone. I was gone, but I could make room for someone new– someone I wanted to be. Since that day, I began weaving one giant tapestry of life one stitch at a time. Yet there is one thread loose: I never gave myself a funeral.
What could I possibly say that wouldn’t be drenched with guilt? People talk a lot about owning your past, your actions, and your choices. But how could I own this? How could I convince myself that what I did was not the most selfish and cowardly thing I could do? What does it mean to own my feelings, or in this case the lack thereof, as I drove my car into a metal guardrail? All of the pain and sorrow I believed I caused to the people I love – the grief and trauma I brought into their lives… Do I own this too? Did I accidentally convince them I was indifferent to their love for me? How ironic, I think, that the first things I felt at my worst moments were that of panic and worry for everyone else. I gave so much of myself away without a second thought.
I’ve heard so many variations of this story.
…Impact. Collision. Accident. Attempt. Suicide. Crash. Choice. Sickness…
What is any of this even called? Can you redeem something without a name?
Of course, the real redemption and true test of love will be if I can redeem myself.
These days, I teeter between feeling fully forgiven or utterly damned. Forgiven today, doomed tomorrow to repeat the transgressions against myself that I so despise. But, there are moments in the comfort of silence that I believe in second chances, that I do not regret what I did, and am instead thankful for its second creation: I have a new window on life.
When I close my eyes, I can see the beautiful things I can create that will unlock the promise of a new and green freedom that welcomes me both as an old friend and joyful child. When I reach for the grass and trees, they will touch me back. I can smell the ocean’s saltwater swirling into me and a haze of kisses from someone who loves me very much, naming each one as they are planted upon my cheek. It is a time without hesitance and worry, without need of knowing or fear of being known. It feels almost real. And then I open my eyes.
There are many nights I am afraid of what I might do, what I cannot do. There are many nights I cast disbelief upon me. Even in sleep I feel the cold burden of grief that overcomes me. I feel panicked under the strain of a new beginning, of starting over, and fearing a future when I am face-to-face with the dark. My body feels weak all over again. Then, I find my window and I remember. Do I believe in redemption? Lately, I do.
