Although I doubt it, perhaps there are there are some still around here that remember me from a year or so ago. If so, I suppose you'd be surprised to see me re-emerge on a suicide forum after such an absence. If you feel up for a story, allow me to tell you mine. Maybe you will find something of worth in it. While I still frequented this site I had clocked a few weeks in crisis wards and received many different medications - all of which failed to work - and after that received ECT - which worked wonders for a few days, but then nothing. This whole time I had a deathwish but abstained for the sake of my family. A short time after my last login - this site tells me it was longer ago than I thought - I lost my patience and made my move. I made an attempt on my life using Seroquel. (Words to the wise: even an absurd OD only gives you seizures) It was not the first attempt, but it did get me put in line for some long-term treatment at a dedicated mental health hospital. It was nearly a whole year I spent there; a year in which I was still willing subjecting myself to whatever treatment the doctor thought best, but it was a whole year I was planning and on the weekends at home I trawled some dark corners of UseNet that were rife with methods. Many of them simply weren't logistically possible given that I lived in hospital and with my parents over the weekend, but there was one method that I found would surely work and I could, if I bided my time, get what I needed. As my father was ill, he was on a certain medication that is quite effective as a way to 'Catch The Bus' as the guy on UseNet told me. For the whole time I was at that hospital I had been cutting. They did do some checks on the way in after weekend visits, but it was still trivially easy to get an exacto-knife razor in and hide it behind a piece of art I had in my room. The blood was easily contained in toilet paper and smuggled via pocket to the washroom to be sent away in the plumbing. I didn't feel good after I cut. I felt nothing. It was better than the homogeneous depression I usually had. By the time I had my plan made to attempt suicide I was 9 months into my hospital stay and was sufficiently trusted not to try anything so I was able to snag a good amount of the medication leftover of my father's on a weekend pass. (he had switched to a different medication but there was plenty of the old stuff left.) Out of what I suppose I would call respect, I decided not to leave a corpse in my parent's house for them to find, but rather I would leave one in the hospital. They did check in over night on us at the hospital, but a sleeping body and a dying body are hard to distinguish. This particular medication would not cause convulsions or other give-aways. I prepared the pills and myself. I put them in with a cup of water to ease the difficulty of getting it all down and to look nonchalant as I made my way to the bathroom. It seemed like hours I stood in the bathroom. I looked into the mirror, I looked at the cup. I raised the cup. The water and payload would come just to my lips and I would steel myself - but I would put it down in fear. When people say suicide is the easy way out I always take offense having been there. Despite my long waiting and focused desire that led to that point I still could not just 'bite the bullet' and do it. I lift the cup again, and manage to jerk it up fast enough to get one bit of the foul tasting drugged water into my mouth. Before I could think I swallowed, and I figured in for a penny in for a pound and took the rest. I had a small breakdown. I kept myself quite - the staff and nurses didn't hear me or anything, but in my mind it was a judge dropping the gavel. I had done it, and it could not be undone. I was scared to die - simultaneously I was ecstatic to go. It was a clusterfuck of emotional triggers. I calmed down and walked back to my room without incident. It was about an hour later I noticed the first stage of the medications taking hold. I would get quite dizzy easily - although I only noticed it in retrospect - got horribly itchy. I was in my bed looking cool and a suicide note lay on my desk just out of sight of the staff that peered in the doorway every now and then. I decided that enough time had passed. I had surely ingested the lethal dose by now (I had roughly 2.5 times the lethal dose in the water glass) and stood, walked to the nursing station and declared quite plainly that I wished a phonecall. They said that it was not an acceptable time for that. I said 'I wish to say goodbye to my parents before I die.' Had what I said not been because I _was_ going to die - or so I though - I would have taken time to laugh heartily at the face the staff made. One of confusion, fear, and perhaps doubt. She demanded I explain myself, and I did. I ended up getting my phone call while the ambulance drove me off. I smugly though there was no saving me, I have ingested more than the lethal dose and needed only wait for the drug to make its rounds in my blood stream and slowly shut down my nervous system. As I said goodbye to my mother, I cried more than I ever had before. Although I never got tolled explicitly, I am quite certain that there was a lethal dose of the drug in my bloodstream, but something I was not banking on occurred. There existed an 'antidote', a drug that was specifically made to render the drugs I had taken inert even in my blood. A lot of the drug had already taken hold and couldn't be neutralized by the antidote, but not enough to kill me. It was close though; my blood/oxygen content was dangerously low and my breathing was extremely weak. I awoke some time later in front of my social worker and parents. Before anything else I said 'now I now who I need to kill to get some attention around here'. I said that because humour was all I had left. I was still to be subjected to the dreary monotony and depression of my life, and all that while all the staff watched me 24/7. I laugh whenever I feel sadness. I laugh a lot. I changed medication again, and it started working for me after a few weeks, but something happened withing the weeks before it worked that I feel worse about now than my attempt. I loved her. She said she loved me, and although it's been more than a year since then I still don't now if she meant it when she said it that day. It was only a few days after I had come back, and she drove out to me - a 3 hour drive for her each way - just to see me. Life seemed worth living, despite my depressed feeling, when I found that out. I dreamed about how she would help make life interesting. I had been depressed so long I wanted to die not only because I was sad but because I was bored of being sad ALL THE TIME. I felt great when she left that day, and a while later I was feeling so much better because the medication let me feel so much more than the depression. They kept me for 3 months in whole after my attempt, but the meds I got made such a difference I was then discharged. It was great day as I took my stuff and left the hospital behind. Despite everything that she had done prior, I could never manage to make the girl see me again. She never outright rebuked me, but somehow any request for anything more than trading emails was dodged, ignored, or met with her 'busy schedule'. She admitted that she was avoiding me about 3 months ago. She says that I remind her too much of 'bad times'. I tried to help her sort out the emotional issues. It didn't go anywhere. I haven't talked to her since then, and I have to drop some whiskey once or twice a month to get to sleep because of it. You know what? I find that great. If I'm worried about chasing down the girl, then that means I care about something. That's a lot more than could be said of my time at the hospital. My life has passion again - many of which aren't so negative like lost love - and I hope that, whatever you may have done or whatever you may do, you will find a way to care enough to hold on again.