This post is in response to the comment I recently received.
I am perfectly alright with talking about my suicide attempts, and contrary to popular belief, talking about it (or writing about it) doesn’t make me “sad”. It is simply recounting an event in my life, and it does not affect me emotionally, so it is okay to ask me anything about my suicide attempts, history with self-harm, etc.
I had three suicide attempts that affected my life very much. The first one was some time in 2011 or 2012 (I’m not too sure). I had collected my psychiatric pills and planned to down them all. I accidentally told a friend of mine, who came by my place with another friend. They talked to mum, and brought me to Singapore’s Institute of Mental Health (IMH) in a cab. My mother refused to let me be admitted into IMH, and there was quite a fuss as she yelled that the patients there, in the girl’s ward, were showing signs of psychosis, and I was not psychotic. I remember surrendering my phone to the nurse, and being brought into the ward. I was showed to a bed beside this girl, probably around my age.
As I crawled under the sheets to turn in, she said hi to me, and said, “Don’t worry, you’ll be alright.”
After a few minutes, my parents took me out of IMH and to a different hospital. After hours of calling various hospitals searching for one that had a psychiatric ward, we finally settled on Mount Elizabeth. I was warded in the psychiatric ward – Ward 14. It was a mixture of males and female, and most of the patients were adults.
(Anon: If you want to know what it was like in the psychiatric ward, just let me know.)
My second attempt was foiled when my mother realised that I was missing. Like every Monday evening, I had to go to Somerset’s *Scape for a student journalist meeting. Unknown to everybody else (I did not want to make the mistake of telling someone about my plans again), I purchased a box of paracetamol (brand name: Panadol) and headed to this hill at a park near my place. That hill was my little retreat from the world, and it was always free of people.
My mother called me, asking me if I was at *Scape yet, as I was walking up the hill. I told her yes. I don’t know how, but she realised that I was lying and asked my friend if he knew where I could be. He did, and pointed my mother to the hill.
I was sitting on the grass, leaning on a boulder, when a bunch of teenage boys, came running to me.
“Hey, are you Claire?”
“Your mother is looking for you. She standing down there crying.”
That concluded my second suicide attempt, and I was sent back into Ward 14.
My third suicide attempt landed me in accident and emergency (A&E). It was after my weekly student journalist meeting, before I met my aunt and uncle for dinner. I went to one of the shower cubicles at *Scape, popped packets of paracetamol pills, and downed them with a bottle of water. *trigger warning* After that, I took out my blade and started slashing myself, watching the blood ooze out of my flesh and drip onto the ground. I could feel myself getting weaker, but I carried on anyway, until I could not even muster enough strength to lift up my arm.
A friend unlocked the door from the outside and looked at me. Evidently, she was utterly taken aback. She called another friend in, who sat with me until the paramedics came. I remember hearing my aunt shouting my name, but I didn’t even have enough strength to open my eyes.
I remember being wheeled into an ambulance on a stretcher, my mother desperately clinging onto my arm and telling me not to fall asleep. I was thinking, “this it is”.
I had people shoving tubes into my mouth and forcibly pumping water into my throat. It hurt a lot, and it felt like the opposite of throwing up – instead of things being forced out, things were being forced in, and I couldn’t stop it. And then, there was nothing.
I woke up in the hospital, needing to pee and throw up really badly. I threw up charcoal repeatedly, and it felt absolutely terrible. When I awoke, I was frustrated. The first thing I thought was, “Fuck, I’m alive”.
According to my parents, the police had wanted to handcuff me to the bed as, in Singapore, suicide is a crime (oh the irony), but after being bitched out by my parents, they resorted to standing outside the door instead.
Yup, that is the story of my suicide attempts, Anon.
If you want to know more, need any advice, want any help, just contact me. We’ve technology now, so I’m just a message away. My email is firstname.lastname@example.org. This applies to everyone.
Here’s some advice now – don’t do it. I’ve no idea who you are, but I’d still care if you killed yourself, and I’d still be sad if you died. Imagine how your parents, or the people who love you, would feel. Don’t even think for one moment that nobody cares about you, or that nobody loves you. The look of pain in your loved ones’ eyes when they realise that you’d rather die than be with them on this earth is one that pierces through your heart. Don’t do it. I care.
Update (August 2016):
I edited this post as I now feel that it’s too intrusive to give out my phone number. You may still email me, but I shall not promise prompt replies (if at all, at the moment). I am learning to put my own health first.
I no longer log onto Facebook either.