Suicide is something many of us have faced, whether through personal experience or the loss of someone close. It’s a topic that can be hard to talk about, but I’ve decided to share my story—the highs, the lows, and everything in between.

If you’ve ever struggled with the feelings of hopelessness or have lost someone to suicide, I want you to know you’re not alone.

In my latest blog post, I dive into the emotions, guilt, and experiences of both attempting and losing someone to suicide.

If you or someone you love is struggling, please reach out. It’s never too late to ask for help.

The First Time: I Was Eleven

I was either 10 or 11 when I tried to take my own life.

Yes, that young.

It might be hard to imagine an 11-year-old feeling so hopeless—but at that age, I had already experienced more than some do in a lifetime. My parents had divorced. We were kicked out of our church. I had to leave the Catholic school I knew and loved to start over somewhere new. My grandmother—the woman who raised me with love and gentleness—passed away. And I lost the one person who truly made me feel safe.

Then there was the abuse. My mother, overwhelmed and hurting herself, became violent. The beatings became more intense. I remember trying to confide in a friend, telling her what was happening at home. She didn’t believe me. So I lifted my shirt and showed her some of the bruises. The bald patches where my hair had been torn out. She gasped. I felt humiliated.

I was also taking care of my five-year-old brother while my mom worked two jobs. I was a child taking care of a child, and there was no one listening. No one coming to help. And when I did try to speak up? I was punished even more for “lying.”

I felt invisible. Afraid. Alone.

One afternoon, I came home from school in tears. I made my brother dinner, turned on the TV for him, and quietly went upstairs. I opened the linen closet and pulled out three bottles of my prescribed tranquilizer medication—liquid form.

I knew how it made me feel better when I took the regular dose. So I thought, maybe if I drank enough of it, I could just drift away and finally be free of the pain.

I took the bottles to my room, opened it, and drank it slowly. I let the taste roll through me, feeling it ease my system. I placed the empty bottle behind my bed. Then I opened the second and drank it even faster. That bottle joined the first, hidden away. I was getting sleepy—not sure if it was the medication or just the exhaustion of carrying so much pain.

I opened the third and drank it in one go.

I crawled under the covers. I wanted it to look like I was sleeping.

And for a while—I was. But not the way I expected.

At first, I felt myself float above my body. I was light. Free. Peaceful. There was no pain. No fear. Just silence.

Then I saw a light. Not just light, but love. A warmth I can’t fully describe. I felt held. Safe. A sense of peace came over me.. There were angels. I saw my Nona. I told her I didn’t want to leave her again. She told me it wasn’t my time—that she loved me and would always be watching over me, guiding me.

And then… I was back in my body.

My mother was screaming. She yanked me out of bed by my hair, furious that the house wasn’t clean and my brother wasn’t being watched. She had no idea what I had done. I told her I wasn’t feeling well, that I was going to throw up… which was true. I ran to the bathroom and vomited the bitter green liquid into the toilet. I quickly flushed the toilet so she wouldn’t notice the color.  She checked my forehead and said I felt a little warm. She didn’t question it.

She let me lie back down. I fell asleep again—angry, disappointed, ashamed that I had failed and hopeful that I wouldn’t wake up.

The next morning, I awoke, stunned that I was still here, alive.  I needed to  clean up the evidence. So I took the bottles to the dumpster. Cried quietly in my room. And kept going. No one ever knew. It was my dark secret that I’ve kept hidden, till now.

The Other Side: Losing My Uncle

Years later, during the Vietnam War, I found myself on the other side of suicide.

My uncle was deployed, and the fear was constant. The sound of the doorbell would send us into a panic, terrified it would be the War Department bringing bad news. Our neighbors weren’t so lucky. The wailing of mothers who lost their sons still echoes in my memory.

When my uncle finally came home, we were relieved—but he was not the same. The war had taken something from him. He drank. He used drugs. He couldn’t sleep without nightmares. The lighthearted man I once knew had disappeared.

Then came the accident.

He and two friends were in a car crash. His friends died instantly. He survived—but just barely. He was in a coma for three months. When he woke up, he was paralyzed on the right side of his body. He had to relearn how to speak, eat, walk, and write—all over again.

I was there with him through it all. I watched him struggle to write with his left hand since his dominant side was no longer usable. So I started learning to write left-handed, too—not because I needed to, but so he wouldn’t feel alone in relearning. We practiced together. That’s when I learned that some of the things I could do were better left handed than right.

At first, his friends and girlfriend were supportive. But as time passed, they visited less and less. Eventually, his girlfriend ended the relationship—telling him she couldn’t be with someone who was paralyzed.

He was gutted. And he started to pull away. I felt so bad for him.

One day, he confided in me: “I don’t want to live anymore.”

I told my mom. I told my grandfather. I begged them to listen. I told them he was going to do it. They brushed it off.  They wouldn’t listen to me.  They stated that he wouldn’t do it and was just trying to get attention. I did my best to speak with him about it. Yet he wasn’t in the frame of mind to even accept the words I spoke.  Being 13 at the time, it was hard for me to find the words, or the actions that would convince him not to. There was a point that I was going to share my experience of attempting, yet I was afraid to a) admit that I attempted b) that he may tell on me or  c) that it may convince him even more to do it. So, I just asked him to pinky promise me not to, that I needed him in my life…he refused.

And then the call came.

He was gone.

I wailed. I screamed. I shouted, “I told you!” I felt like I had failed him. I questioned everything. Why did my attempt fail but his didn’t? What if I shared my experience with him, would he still be here?  I still don’t have that answer.

At his funeral, his friends showed up. So did his ex. I was furious. Furious they didn’t show up in life but came for his death. And then I overheard my mom and grandfather saying it was a “relief.” That crushed me.

But maybe… maybe they were just afraid. Afraid of what his life could have been. I don’t know. I was too afraid to ask, and too afraid to hear their answer.

Suicide – These were my thoughts and feelings more than 4 years ago…..

By Deborah Myers 02/13/2021

A Poem of My Pain

These are the words I could not express at the time, so I wrote them down instead.

Dark, alone, deep,
Cavernous, pain
Swallowing grief
Morbid thoughts
Foretelling omens
Trapped, stuck, jailed, tied
No one hears the cry
Shouldn’t feel this way
Lots to live for
Be grateful –
Still, no one hears the agony
Alone again,
Going forever deeper into the darkness
Slipping further and further away – No one hears
No light shining
No one crying
Fear shows up – looks face to face
Grappling, fighting, overcoming
Till the end
It all stops
Forever gone

What I’ve Learned

Now, decades later, I’ve sat with all of it. The shame. The silence. The helplessness. The anger. The grief.

And what I’ve learned is this:

There is no easy answer.

If you know someone who’s struggling, please—stop telling them they have a lot to live for. They already know about the roof over their heads, their clothes, food, the spouse, the kids, the pets, the job. We know. And it only makes us feel worse.

The pain of depression isn’t always explainable. It’s not logical. It’s a darkness. A void. A deep pain, And sometimes, we just want it all to stop.

To Anyone Who’s Still Here Reading this….

If you’ve made it this far, thank you. Whether you’re someone who has considered suicide, someone who has lost someone to suicide, or someone trying to help—you matter.

You are not alone.

 

I see you. I understand the pain that lives on both sides of this journey. While each experience is unique, the emotions and struggles are deeply familiar. You are not alone.

I’m sharing my story—not just for myself, but for anyone who has faced the devastating realities of suicide. I’ve been on both sides, and I know how often this conversation gets pushed into the shadows. It’s taken me a long time to speak up, to confront both sides of the guilt – missing the signs and admitting this truth about myself to others, and to honor the pain that runs so deep it often hides in unbearable silence.

I believe one reason I’m still here today, and why I wasn’t “successful” in my own darkest moments, is to shine a light on this often-unspoken truth. It’s been a long road to find the courage to dig into my own story, to admit the depth of my struggle, and to release the guilt, the shame—and yes, the anger—that came with it.

If you’re living with suicidal thoughts, or grieving someone who lost that battle, my heart is with you.

You don’t have to carry this alone. Let’s break the silence—together.

Optional Resources

• If you or someone you love is struggling, please don’t stay silent.
• 📞 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline (U.S.) – Call or text 988
  💬 Crisis Text Line – Text HOME to 741741
  🌐 www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org

 

You are loved. You are not a burden. There is help.