I first attempted at 12 (I'm now 40). I took 2 bottles of <<a common OTC item...don't think I can say, but I now know it's almost never lethal>> and laid down in bed fully expecting to die. A bit later, my step mom (who would have been elated to see me dead) appeared in the doorway of my room waving the 2 empty bottles that she had pulled out of the garbage and smiling like she'd just won the lottery. Then she turned away and didn't come back. That really messed me up. At the time, it was like being told, "I know you're dying and I'm happy to just let you die". Almost 30 years later, I still flash back to that moment on a pretty regular basis, and it's still devistating. I've attempted several times since then. I have no earthly idea how I survived, but on 3 occasions I had doctors telling me there was no medical reason I should have made it. I hate it... I hate what it does to my partner. I hate feeling like I'm crazy and I hate having to face the disappointment that I've failed again. But a part of me also takes comfort in feeling like I have that twisted little "escape hatch" if I need it (which of course, it never is). Sometimes I think that the universe just loves to torture me. I really do want to change, but it's so hard when it's been hardwired in to you for so long.