I remember the first time I tried to kill myself.
It was just honestly a break in the space-time continuum I had going after decades of pain. A momentary darkness, and a suffocating hopelessness that had knocked the wind out of me. I’d decided in those moments where breath and tears escaped me that I was done. Then I found myself half way through a cheap bottle of bargain basement gin and a bottle of Tylenol.
I was 18.
Everyone in my dorm was out for the night and I was laying on the floor of the community shower with a copy of The Master and Margarita next to me. How dramatic right? I just thought that if I was going to die I was going to do it reading a book I loved.
I didn’t die.
Many years later, I decided I was going to remember it on the anniversary in blood and ink. When I told my story, the artist took a pen and wrote on my skin “I survived”. Then he looked at me as he started to ink and said “I’m glad you were a failure with at least one thing”