The second time i tried to commit suicide i was 24 years old.

I had spent the nine years in between my first and second suicide attempt barely getting by, Sometimes i had good moments, even months.

When i was sixteen i began a ten year struggle with self-harm, addictive behaviours and engaging in activities that were dangerous to my mind and body.

I discovered the agonizing pleasure and pain that came with sexuality and throwing your body to strange men in the hope for love, or freedom from self-hate, but resulted in personal lows that were so immobilizing that the only cure was more sex. A cycle that continued for years. More drugs, more alcohol, more sex, more hate, the lowest self-esteem and debilitating depression coupled with days on end of uncontrolled mania.

I had never been told that my depression was something that could be helped. I spent my days thinking that the way i felt was how my life was going to be. That i would always hate myself and, in turn, let others hate me and abuse me.

I was molested as a child. I learned that sex was a way to hurt, be hurt, and control.

I fell in love when i was 21 and spent three years struggling with my desire for my boyfriend. I loved him and sex was, for the first time, mutual and enjoyable. But, i would spend my hours late at night, when i was alone, confused by my feelings. Wanting to destroy the love i had before it crushed me.

I wanted him to leave me. I wanted him to hate me. I wanted him to love me forever.

I wanted to die. I wanted to die rather than deal with all the fucked up thoughts in my head. I wanted to die rather than let myself be loved and eventually destroy him.

I had started on the road to seeking help. I was diagnosed as manic depressive (bi-polar nowadays). I was given ativan and lithium. I was sent to psychiatrists who diagnosed me ninety-nine different ways depending on my mood that day and how i answered questions. Thus beginning my hatred of therapy and the mental-medical profession in general.

I hated the way i felt on lithium. The out-of-body feeling. Looking in on myself, but too drugged to scream at my screwed up self. I stopped taking the medication, but continued filling the prescriptions until i had my little stockpile. My arsenal.

I overdosed quietly and went to bed. I lived.