Twelve years ago today, I tried to kill myself. I failed.
But, I also succeeded. I succeeded in saving my own life, and in the process, I saved myself from becoming a ghost.
I still feel an eerie connection to the spirit world. I still believe that your soul lives on even when you die. I believe I did die, physiologically speaking, and I’m convinced that had I not come back, my soul would’ve been trapped in that hospital- forever.
But it wasn’t my time to go yet, and I got the message, loud and clear.
I had a near death experience. A vivid one. One that, to this day, is etched in my mind. I can still describe it with exquisite precision. I can still feel the pull of that bright light as it drew me nearer and called me to cross over to the other side. I can still hear the bang. I can still feel myself being sucked back to consciousness.
But, I can’t pretend to understand how I survived. All I know is, somehow, I did.
For as gruesome a scene as it was when I came back to, the whole thing has left me with more than just anoxic and traumatic brain injuries. It left me with a sense of purpose in the world: to share my life story so that others don’t make the same mistakes I did.
It might sound cliché, but it’s true. Drugs don’t fix anything, and suicide is never the answer. It only causes more pain.
Some might call me a failure for having screwed up my life so badly that I tried to hang myself in a psych ward, high on crack. Others might call me a failure for having not succeeded in my effort to end my life.
But, all these years later, I won’t call myself that.
I’ve just had to rethink what it means to be a success.