By TINA CRUIKSHANK

It’s been thirteen years since I took two vials full of lithium and Lamictal and chased them down with a bottle of wine. I felt I had gotten the “go-ahead” from Jesus, with whom I was conversing at the time. We had been having regular conversations since I was a child, trying to remove the nails that bound Him to a crucifix in my grandparents’ old bedroom. Then, I had wanted Him to rescue us from the lower-case him in our home.

I was beyond rescue at this point. Two abusive relationships and one rape in, my childhood mantra that “things will get better” had long grown stale. This was not my first attempt, but I was determined to make it my last. After my first attempt three years earlier, an ER doc told me I would have had to take an entire vial of each of my meds to succeed. (I’m pretty sure “succeed” wasn’t his choice of words, but I felt I got the gist.) Vials on hand and what I thought were neatly tied conversations, I was ready to embrace the silence.

I woke up convulsing, panicking, looking for the kitchen phone that no longer existed. It did not come to me that my cell phone must have been nearby. I remember the moment briefly, when the only presence speaking was mine. I didn’t want to die.

I woke up again, but this time in the ICU, hooked up to a dialysis machine. It seemed no vein was left untapped; I was entangled in cords. I did not get myself to the hospital. (As I was later informed, I had passed out in a pool of vomit.) Someone who long ago forfeited being any measure of a “friend” (I said I wasn’t ready. Did he not hear me?!?) “had a feeling,” which set in motion actions that resulted in my being there. I snapped a selfie with my shitty flip phone. “Do not try this again,” I captioned it inside my head.

Time was a blur. I had no idea how long I had been there, but my father and sister had made the trip from Florida. My college friends added their names to a dry-erase board, as did my high school best friend. None of this guaranteed permanence in my life. Within the month, I’d lose a huge part of my heart, of which the scars remain. But I didn’t know that then.

In the ICU, I decided I would never try to kill myself again. I didn’t want anyone to have to explain my actions to their children, including my nieces, including another that felt so close to being my own. I didn’t want anyone to feel the type of aching void I had felt. But, more than anything, I made peace with God that my existence mattered.

I continue to share my story to let others know they are not alone in this world and that despite the worst thoughts that come into their heads, their lives are worth living. YOUR LIFE IS WORTH LIVING, AND I’M SO GLAD YOU’RE HERE.