All my life I believed my inability to curtail my eccentricity lead to my own isolation. I felt a shadow in a psychedelic world.

Jung said a shadow is a part of the subconscious mind that is mysterious and often disagreeable to the conscious; the immoral thoughts and impulses that are suppressed. Only I didn’t feel mine were suppressed. I found myself awkward, weird and angry.

I was the cliché textbook case, cradling a blade, only the knives didn’t work anymore. I wanted to die. My anger had become a thing of darkness, a thing refusing to change shape and it plastered itself against my mind; like an infinite void into Hades oral cavity. I felt it moving inside myself, opening up doors of repulsion and it drew me towards pain and the stillness of death. My sadness overtook my life; it spread me wide and impaled me on my own shattered happiness. I was left whimpering and desperate to unleash my own cruelty onto my flesh.

I had been flitting with the idea of slashed wrists or a hanging corpse for a while, yet there I went and surprised myself by crunching 60 sleeping tablets. I penned a note across my boyfriend’s wall. He was meant to come home in the morning, elated at my departure from this cruel world and yet be sadly melancholic at my passing; could my self-absorption being any worse?

I failed and ended having my stomach pumped and became single all in one night. Being Bipolar (I hate that word) I reacted to all of this in the most absurd way. I became elated and changed from suicidal to euphoric in the space of two hours. I was incapable of digesting the severity of my actions. I was like a little kid, desperately confused. Why were all the adults angry?

Two hours later reality came crashing down.

They refused to discharge me on the grounds (quite justifiably) of being a suicide risk. I spent the longest night of my short existence in the emergency ward, curled as tight as possible, wishing the world would just let me go and cursing myself for not using the fucking blades.

If I was desperate to die before, it compared nothing to the isolation I felt those few hours in the emergency ward. I was too afraid to phone my parents for fear of reprimand, another annoyance in their lives. I felt that they would be more annoyed at the fact that I could not get it right rather than that I was so seriously desperate and depressed I had tried to take my life.

Whom could I call? I was so ashamed of myself. There was literally no one. I had isolated myself from everybody due to my inability to communicate. Now I lay, back to square one-a sad little ball of pain and misery.

When she walked into the room, we both started sobbing. Maybe I had it wrong all along and God was not an acid hallucination; did he bring me the only person I knew would never judge me? My childhood friend.

All I could muster to say as she held me was, ‘Love, your boobs are so small.’ The absurdity of that statement at that time left us both in laughing hysterics. Now I see it rather as a wonderful reminder of life. Life is not just a dream.

Yes my pain was and is real; yes I will need to take a ‘happiness cocktail’ that most drug addicts would saw off their left arms for, for the rest of my life, but I am alive. My friend is my inspiration and reminder to live, no matter how bad everything gets.

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