When I was sixteen, I googled “ways to commit suicide,” and a page came up listing painless ways to do it. That was the first time I attempted suicide, by swallowing all the pills in our house. Nothing came of it except a quick trip to the emergency room.
My parents didn't care at all. They didn't believe I was depressed or acknowledge that I was suicidal, so I had to go through my school to get on antidepressants. I quit taking them a month later.
The second time I tried was when I was twenty-two. It was an extremely intense episode, and I cut myself vertically, trying to cause as much damage as possible. But I didn't stop there. I went out to my car in the middle of the night, when the streets were empty, and drove recklessly at 200 km/h while drunk. I almost flipped my car and crashed multiple times. For whatever reason, I eventually stopped, called a suicide hotline, and was taken away by an ambulance. Once again, I was put on antidepressants, but I stopped taking them after three weeks.
Now I'm twenty-five, and I feel like I'm at the lowest point of my life. I keep putting myself in increasingly worse situations and making my life harder for no apparent reason. I fucked up my relationship, tried to get back together, and now that we're together again, I want out. I don't want to finish my degree because unemployment feels inevitable. I have no friends, or at least no truly close ones. I constantly feel like I'm everyone's third or last choice, including my parents', who don't seem to like me anymore because of my sexuality.
I'm so tired of feeling this broken and empty. For weeks, I've been thinking about just ending it for real this time. But before that, I want to enjoy life for a little while. After that, I'll decide how and when to do it, unless I end up acting impulsively and doing it before then.
I have nothing to look forward to, and it just feels easier to end it all.