I thought I had a perfect plan. For months I’d been getting ready as my savings slowly drained away, unable to find work, unable to find meaning in this empty, vapid country. I have lived in Portland twenty years, and have several great friends, but that was no longer enough to overcome the hopelessness and despair consuming me.
And it’s only going to get worse. We’re only going to get older. We’re going to die someday anyway, right?
I had three Oxys and six morphine pills, surely enough to do the job.
When the day finally came, I spent hours walking through the city, cherishing the crisp air. The sky was so beautiful. I watched the people going about their lives and thought about how easily the world would continue without me. I returned to my little room and started drinking a twelve pack. I listened to some of my favorite tapes from my younger days.
After ten beers I began dozing off and knew the time was ready. I looked at the baggie of pills. Am I really going to do this? I thought. Then I swallowed them.
I lay down on my bed, certain I would never wake up, yet knowing I made the right decision. I hoped none of my friends would feel any guilt.
I couldn’t believe it when I opened my eyes twelve hours later. I vomited repeatedly, then I got angry because I WAS NOT DEAD. And because I’d managed to fuck up my suicide, just like everything else. I realized why people jump off buildings, shoot themselves, drive into a semi, or point a gun at cops.
So now I sit in my room two days later, crying my eyes out, drowning in sadness, more hopeless than ever and wonder—now what?
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