the morning after.

the one I didn't expect to have.

credit: V6MPYRS on Pinterest

trigger warning: discussion of a suicide attempt.
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My body ached. My head pounded. My hands clenched.

Everything felt hazy, as if I were in a dream.

I wondered if it worked. Was I now in the afterlife—did I even believe in the afterlife?

I opened my eyes and looked around to see the same room I’d gone to bed in. The note I had left on the table glowed from the sunlight. The water bottle I drank out of to swallow the pills stood tall next to it.

I picked up my phone and tapped the screen. There was my lock screen—a picture of the sunset at my favorite beach—and the time: 9:18am. And the date: October 7th.

It was the next day.

It hit me in waves:

Goddamn it, it didn’t work.

Did I not do this right? I mean, clearly, but how did I mess this up? Was I not capable of ending my life correctly? This was just another failure to add to the list. I wanted to scream, but my throat felt raw. The relief that I desperately wanted from the claws of my suffering felt so out of reach. Tears of frustration began to form.

Then,

Holy shit, it didn’t work.

I was alive. Nobody had to find me, read my note, come to terms with why I chose to do what I intended to. Even when I had prepared myself to die, I didn’t. My heart, my lungs, my brain… they all still worked like they always did. I lived to see another day. Was I saved by a guardian angel? Did some dead relative of mine work some magic to keep me alive? Why did the universe make sure I failed?

And, most profoundly,

Thank god, it didn’t work.

My stomach stirred. Despite how resolute my intention was the night before, the relief of my failure washed over me. My mind raced with what this all meant: did I really want my life to be over? Would I have regretted my decision in whatever realm I ended up in? Did I want to give living another chance, even if that meant I wasn’t happy?

I picked up my note, reading the words I’d planned on being my last. One line in particular stood out:

“I don’t want you to be sad. This is what I want.”

Was it? Sitting there, I struggled to relate to the version of myself who’d written that so confidently.

I re-read my words, waiting for them to feel as certain as they did before—but they didn’t. They never did.

I got up, instantly feeling my knees shake. I walked into the bathroom and washed my face—the first time I’d done so in weeks.

I was alive.

That was a good place to start.