Note: This post goes into the events of the day I tried to kill myself. Take care of yourself while reading.
One Sunday night, I felt something close to peace. Not hope — I hadn’t felt hope in months — but the calm that comes when you finally make a decision. Ending my life felt like the last thing I still had control over. Rowan was safe. My children didn’t need me. My parents didn’t care. I had pushed everyone out of the life I once had, and the emptiness left behind felt final. I was numb, and I was done.
I planned to go for a swim the next day. My birthday. I decided it would be my last. There was nothing left to fight for, nothing left to hold on to. Life had stopped having meaning, and the only thing that made sense was choosing my own exit.
I texted one of the few friends I had left and told him goodbye. No details — just a quick, quiet goodbye. He responded almost immediately. He said he understood I was doing what I felt I had to do, but he asked me for one favor: check into a crisis center first. Then, if I still wanted to go through with my plan, I could.
It felt simple enough. So I drove there. It was on the way to the place I planned to disappear.
When I arrived, I moved like someone who had already left. No hope, no fear, no energy. Just emptiness. A counselor came into the conference room and sat with me. My story poured out of me in one long flood — everything I had endured, everything that had broken me, everything I couldn’t carry anymore. I remember thinking: this is the last time I will ever have to explain myself.
When I finished, I thanked her and stood to leave, but she asked me to wait. She stepped out and locked the door behind her. I didn’t react. I didn’t have anything left to react with. A few minutes later she returned with two EMTs and a stretcher.
They told me I was being transferred to a hospital. I didn’t argue. I didn’t care. I had no fight left, and it didn’t matter where my body went — my mind had already checked out. I don’t remember the ambulance ride or being admitted to the psych ward. I don’t remember the first night. Everything was fog.
But the fog was quiet. No one demanding anything from me. No one threatening me. No one dragging me back into the wreckage of my life. For the first time in months, I wasn’t being pulled apart by someone else’s chaos.
Somewhere in that quiet, something shifted. Not hope — I was nowhere near hope. But a flicker of refusal. A stubborn, angry thought: if I disappear, she wins. And even at my emptiest, I wasn’t giving her that.
They released me a week later and called me “safe.” I wasn’t safe. I was furious. And for the first time in a long time, that fury felt like something I could use.
Still not ready to give up,
K
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