Nobody ever told me it was going to be so hard to kill myself. I mean, you always hear about the people who ‘attempt’ suicide. People take a hand full of pills, and then they pick up the phone and call a friend or the 911 operator. They didn’t want to die. Pussies. My first thought, was that it would be so easy. Take the pills then don’t call anyone. How hard could it be?
So I wrote out a long note. It explained why I did what I did before leaving home. Anyone who read it would have understood why I chose to take my own life.
I spent most of the money I had on a decent hotel room. There was no way I was going to go out in a motel 6. I pretty much emptied the mini fridge of all the tiny bottle of alcohol and then I laid down on the bed to get comfortable.
Three bottles of prescription drugs were ground down and dissolved into a 20 ounce bottle of soda. I took a few sips to make sure my stomach could handle it. I felt fine, so I downed the rest of the deadly cocktail. I bid the world adieu and drifted off to sleep.
Imagine my surprise when I woke up the next morning to the sound of the maids banging on the door. I had missed check out time… In more ways than one.
Put aside the fact that my concoction was strong enough to kill a horse. Some how my body did not agree with my choice and vomited all over myself, and my note.
While they were banging on the door, I took my belt and wrapped it around my neck. I said Sayonara to the mirror. I pulled over the desk chair and managed to get the other side hooked around the ceiling fan. I kicked the chair away and found myself dangling a foot above the floor. I was choking but at the same time smiling because I was experiencing the big fade to black, that is until the ceiling fan broke. I fell to the floor and the fan hit me in the head leaving a pretty interesting bruise.
Not only was I still alive, I had to pay a late check out fee, pay for all the mini bar items, the fan, and to top it off, my well written note was ruined.
I didn’t let these failure keep me from my goal. As a well prepared individual, I had a back up plan. If a hanging or legal prescription drugs wouldn’t do the trick, then maybe some illegal ones would.
I took out 300 dollars from my dwindling bank account. I caught a cab into the heart of the city and attempted to purchase some cheap and dirty, low grade, back tar heroin. This in itself proved to be no easy task. Most of the people I spoke to were users. They had rotted out teeth, ragged clothing, and smelled like urine. Then there were the corner boy’s, but they only dealt in dime bags of weed and vials of crack. I told them I was trying to kill myself and had no interest in zoning out on some decent bud or becoming a mindless crack head. They sensed that I was a cop looking for a big bust so they refused to give any names or numbers of people who could provide the items that I was seeking.
Now, I suppose I’ll tell you that they were right. I am a cop, or rather was a cop. The old saying is true. Once a cop always a cop. So it’s no wonder that the people whom I was trying to buy from picked up on it.
It took almost all night but I finally found a pimp who seemed like he was interested in selling to me, until he asked me to roll up my sleeves. He was suspicious of my request and wanted to see if I had track marks, the tell-tall sign of a drug addict. I did not. He tried to back out of the deal. I didn’t have time to find another potential seller. I withdrew my gun from the holster behind my back and shot the guy in the head.
A quick search of the pockets of his fir coat turned up the drugs. I thanked his corpse and went into a nearby abandoned row home to kill myself.
Having been a detective for a number of years I was familiar with how intravenous drug users set up. I rolled up my sleeve and tied a plastic tube around my arm. I heated up the dissolving drugs in a spoon, then using a cotton ball as a filter, I loaded up the syringe.
I had also prepared another note. This time it was much shorter than the one that I had written in the hotel. All the info was there only summarized. As they say, the devil is in the details, so I thought it best to leave them out.
My final word out-loud: AdiÃ³s. I stuck the needle deep into my arm and injected myself with the heroin.
Only it wasn’t. I was expecting a rush like I had never experienced before, followed by a massive coronary heart attack. Neither of those two things happened. That small time pimp was planning to rip me off. If he wasn’t already dead, I’d have killed him.
The next day, I decided that I should do it by jumping off of a bridge.
I took the note from the second botched overdose and stuck it into my shirt pocket. I Checked my bank account and withdrew the remainder of my money. It was just enough to rent a car. I drove the rental car onto the bridge and stopped somewhere near the crest.
Before anyone behind the stopped rental car could figure out why the car suddenly halted on the bridge I opened the door, then hoped onto the roof of the car and took a running leap off the side of the bride. Just as I was going over, my eyes locked with those of a young woman driving a BMW who was 2 car’s behind mine. I winked at her and yelled out: Auf Wiedersehen in my best German accent.
This wasn’t the golden gate bridge, but it wasn’t some dinky stream-crosser either. I should have been a goner, but I woke up washed ashore gasping for breath. The only thing I accomplished was knocking the wind out of myself and spraining my ankles. That, and giving a woman a good story to tell their friends.
Understandably pissed off, I limped away in pain to contemplate my forth failed attempt. Not many people would pick up a soaked man limping down a busy highway. God bless truck drivers. I hitched a ride and asked him to drop me off at a nearby library. On the way, we listened to reports of a man who jumped off a bridge. He looked at me a few times but never asked any questions.
At the library, I did a Google search and I found out that I happened to jump at the same time the tides were coming in, and thus was washed to shore in a small cove. Lucky me. I pulled the note from my shirt pocket. It was ruined. I wasn’t sure what the hell I was thinking. If I had died, no one would have been able to read the note anyway. Just another stupid mistake in a series of stupid mistakes.
At the computer I typed my new and improved, but shorter note: Fuck. I hit the print button and placed the piece of paper, neatly folded, into my wallet.
If you had not suspected it yet, let me tell you, I don’t like blood. Sure, I can shoot or stab some one and it won’t bother me, but I don’t like the sight of my own blood and had gone my whole life doing everything possible to avoid blood related injures. Until this point I had been trying to kill myself by some what tame ways.
I had to expand my horizons.
I limped out of the library and walked across the street to an Indian run convenience/donut store. I found the two items I needed and walked to the register. A pack of anti-acids and a razor blade. Not being able to off myself was causing my ulcer to act up, thus the anti-acids. I’m sure you can figure out what the razor blades were for.
The clerk gave me an odd look so I told him to get me a glazed donut as well. Suspicion averted. The total came to $4.56. I paid him with my last five dollar bill and tossed the change into the St. Jude’s collection jar.
Outside, I walked to the back of the store and had a seat by the dumpster. I figured if I was going to make a mess, at-least it would be in an already messy place. I popped the chew-able anti-acids and ate the donut. I took the razor out of it’s cardboard casing and examined it. This should work, I thought.
Racking my brain, choosing my new final word, I said: Do svidanja. This time in a Russian accent. I ran the blade fast and deep across my left wrist. It hurt like hell. I switched hands and and I could barely hold the blade due to the cut tendons and ran the blade across the other wrist, so it wasn’t as deep.
At the first sign of blood gushing out of my wrists, the world wavered and darkened and just like that I was out. For awhile. To be honest, I wasn’t even that surprised when I woke up a few minutes later. Although the wounds were deep, the bleeding had stopped.
I heard the sound of an ambulance in the distance. From what I gather, the clerk’s wife heard my fair-well call and investigated. She found me passed out and bleeding. She yelled to her husband who called 911. Now this attempt was botched by two things that I wasn’t aware of at the time. The paramedic said that I have a rare blood condition that causes any wounds to clot up to ten times faster than normal. I never knew this because I spent my life avoiding injury. Go figure. The second thing was that I cut my wrists all wrong. He was nice enough to demonstate the right way, but refused to hand me the razor blade so that I could try again.
In the ambulance, I managed to knock out the paramedic who was attending to me. No one bothered to check me for weapons. I might have been wet. bruised, sick to my stomach, had two sprained ankles and two sets of ruined tendons, and a sore throat, but I still had my Glock 9mm.
I held the barrel to my temple and pulled the trigger. A blinding white flash of light is the last thing saw. Or should have seen. Yes, I woke up yet again. It was 3 weeks later. The doctor explained how lucky I am to be alive. He told me that an eighth of an inch higher or lower and I would have been dead for sure. As it turns out, the bullet would not cause any long lasting damage. It remains in my head and I’m going to make a full recovery.
Six times, and no luck. Either I’m the most un-luckiest guy in the world or for some reason I’m not supposed to be dead yet.
That doesn’t mean I’m done trying.
Nobody ever told me it was going to be so hard to kill myself but sooner or later, I’ll get it right.Share