The attempt

Or, major depressive disorder, single episode, moderate.

I did not attempt suicide. I did have suicidal ideation, I had plan, I made a half-hearted effort to carry it out. I did not want to kill myself. I still fantasize about it.

In the winter of 2019, I sat alone in the house, on the floor in front of the closet where we keep all our medicine, with several of the bins opened in front of me. I had my phone, and I was looking up the lethality of the various compounds we had.

I can confirm that we did not have anything that would have killed me. I can confirm I did not try. I honestly do not remember what the circumstances were. Was it before the holidays? After? Had something happened? I have no recollection.

But I can tell you it was not the first time I thought about attempting suicide. It was not the last. And it will happen again.

My depression meds are working well right now, so I have not thought about it recently with any intent. Today, it is on my mind because it is TDOR, and we have lost so many trans and gender nonconforming people to suicide, people who could not imagine life as themselves.

But I still think about it often, even without intent. I will think about it while driving, especially on long highway drives. I will think about it when I stand on my balcony, three stories above the concrete pool deck. I will think about it while I take my meds morning and night. I will think about it when I look at my to do list. I will think about it when I open my fridge and find it empty. When I crawl into my cold bed in the middle of the night after peeing. When I pull out my keys to unlock my apartment door. When I meditate. When I finish a book and consider how to escape next.

I will make another attempt someday. When my meds are not mixing well with the day’s chemistry. And I am setting systems and tools and barriers in place that I will have to scale to get there. I have a safety plan (and I recommend it for everyone). I have been honest with friends, family, and my therapist about this. I am learning how to reach out for help, something at which I am pathologically terrible.

I know, I know, that depression lies. That tomorrow will be better. I’m trained to recognize and work with suicidal ideation. And yet. This is how I describe my mental state during a depressive jaunt:

When you’re slamming your head against the tree over and over again, you can’t even conceive of the forest, much less see it. There is no alternative.

Here’s how to beat it. People love you. Reach out to them. I know how hard it is, I know you don’t believe me, but be good to yourself, and let them help.