It started with guilt, and cigarettes, and children. Park Slope was full of kids and here I was, on a Sunday, poisoning the world just by being me. I didn't want to ruin my tattoo so I decided to cut open the other side of my arm, who knows i might not even die.
Four blocks from my apt i started to walk home. Thankfully it dawned on me what I was about to do, and I panicked. Turned the corner and headed towards the hospital.
I didn't check myself in that day, spent the night at a friends house, meeting her husband for the first time. He really liked me, which is a testament to the irony of mixed states, even during suicidal ideation I was still fun to be around. I checked myself in the next day, spent around two weeks recovering in the hospital and adjusting my medication.
I owe my life to the friends who helped me see the gravity of that emergency. "At some point the part of you that wants to die will grow so strong that you will lose that battle." I can still remember where I was when a friend of mine told me that. it's why I finally decided to be hospitalized. I'd do the same thing again, though i hope i never have to.