After one of a million familiar fights with my live-in boyfriend and one very hard year, I lifted the pill bottle and swallowed up what was left and then chased it with a mouthful of liquor.

Then I went to bed and laid beside him.

And waited.

The next thing I remember, he was rushing me to the hospital. I’m in and out of it. When I am coherent I am cruel and saying horrible things to him.

No person is as dangerous as a person that is ready to die. They are willing to take anyone with them.

Inside the hospital, I wait. They’re not going to admit me. Great. He’s mad. I’m relieved. Then the itching begins. The burning and itching starts in my head and is working its way down to my shoulders and extremities. I probably looked crazy scratching like there were villages of mosquitos covering me. Seeing this, the hospital staff change their mind and admit me. I still think it’s a choice. The police man nearby lets it be known that it’s not.

The hospital staff on duty that night were most likely prepared for another graveyard full of car wreck victims and normal broken bones. They were not, however, most likely prepared for the girl who was ready to die and tear down everyone in her path. They put me in a room and quickly grew tired of my resistance when asking questions.

“How many pills did you take?”

“What did you take?”

Truth be told, I didn’t know how many or what I took. I didn’t care. I knew I took enough and that’s all that mattered. I wasn’t stupid enough to admit that I did it on purpose.

“Where did you find the pills? Were they prescribed to you?”

My boyfriend’s face stared at me blankly. It must have all been surreal for him.

In my mind, once I left the hospital, I was going to finish what I started so there was no point in trying to save me.

The nurses were tired of dealing with me and for good reason. I cussed them all out and treated them horribly. I think they were mildly happy to show me what happened next. I’m still not sure why it’s referred to as having your stomach “pumped” but that description isn’t enough. Nope. A tube is siphoned down your throat so that they can pour bags of fluid straight to your stomach and induce vomiting. This happened for quite a while. Too long. I believe they recovered around 13 codeine pills but some had already been digested. Then comes the charcoal and you don’t even want to hear what that induces for pills that weren’t recovered.

It gets worse.

Once it was all over a nurse came in my room. I glared at her with hatred in my eyes and for the first time admitted what I had done and would do.

“All that did was make me want to go home and finish the job.” I told her with contempt.

She turned to me and just asked “Why?”

What may have seemed like such a simple question had such a complicated answer and I just broke. I poured my heart out to this nurse about how I had recently gave birth to but lost a son and I couldn’t stop grieving. No matter what I did, the pain wouldn’t stop. I was in depression and just didn’t realize it. It would seem normal to be sad after losing a baby, right?

The nurse left and came back with the doctor. I was scared she would tell the doctor what I said. She came back into the room smiling though. “Do you want to tell her or do you want me to?” She asked the doctor.

“You’re pregnant.”

My heart jumped out of my chest. I just tried to take my life and I would have taken my child with me. Of course my first reactions were safety of my child. I couldn’t believe what a horrible and selfish thing I was so ready to do and how it would have affected something so much bigger than just me.

Fast forward seven months. had been on bed rest for three months due to an incompetent cervix and go into premature labor. I gave birth to a 2lb 4oz baby boy at 27 weeks. I watched an infant, small enough to fit in one hand, fight instinctively to stay in a world I was so ready to escape. I found new a beauty in the world.

aMay of 2003 should have been an amazing blessing and great news is shadowed with my attempt on suicide. I still consider it the best day of my life but I know one day when he’s old enough, I’ll have to explain to him how I found out I was pregnant with him. I want him to understand how he saved me because that’s exactly what he did.

Depression and anxiety from MWSU Campus Watch on Vimeo.

Read the rest of the mental health series articles:

• Stressed? Overwhelmed? Sad?
• Under Pressure: Anxiety is more common than you think
• Suicide prevention training hits close to home
• On-campus psychology clinic offers free counseling
• Counselors: Nothing is off limits
• Column: The best and worst day of my life
• Column: Support, don’t condemn those with depression