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Personal Narrative: My Suicide

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My girlfriend texted me.
“I decided it would be interesting to cut myself.”
She argued that it didn’t have anything to do with angst, or being suicidal. She said it was just a reminder that bleeding is a real human being type of thing. She said she thought it was funny how we can make ourselves bleed like that. She asked me to imagine how empty you would have to feel to stab yourself in the heart, like Elliott Smith. She was listening to St. Ides Heaven.
I told her I didn’t have to imagine.
Or I should have. What I said instead was that I couldn’t respond to her. I told her that things would get too real if I answered this line of texts. I tried to brush it off, like this was some quirky cute thing she was doing.
The last text I sent her before I fell asleep was this: …show more content…

No going back.”

Sam and I first met two days after I attempted suicide for the first time this year. I overdosed on xanax and wine and slit my wrists and passed out before I was able to get deep enough to do any damage. I woke up with little puddles of muddy blood on either side of me, my shirt covered in ugly stains. The droplets of blood congealed like rust on an iron fence.
She noticed them later that night at a party. She asked me why I did it, and told me not to. She said she cared about me and she wanted me to keep being in her life. I don’t know why she texted me about cutting herself tonight. I don’t know what she wanted.

I looked at the clock. It was half past four in the morning. I rolled over, “Third Rock from the Sun” still playing, my room filled with blue electrical light, and I fell asleep. I dreamt that I was leaving the psychiatric clinic. I had made enough progress. I had been released. I got in my car, prepared to drive back home to

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