can't live, can't die

a tale of hopelessness

Last week I made a suicide attempt. It failed, so I ended up in a psychiatric crisis center. After three days they discharged me; not because I was ready to leave, but because I had no insurance. I left in worse shape than I arrived.

When they said I had to leave, I asked them, "are you in the habit of releasing people who are still suicidal?" They gave me a written prescription for antidepressants and antianxiety meds, but no samples. What were they thinking? They know that I have no money or insurance!

Currently I am homeless, jobless, and without hope for my future.

I'll be attempting suicide again soon. Maybe if I try often enough they'll give me the help I need.

Update, 03 July 2014:

Wow, it's hard to believe that it has been ten years since I was in that state. I remember it fairly well, and don't think I'll be doing THAT dance again any time soon.

All possible thanks to every person who helped me. Most of you probably don't even know that you helped or how.

Imagine! Me, with a dog and a car and a house in the middle of a National Forest, sober for 6 years, 5 months and 20 days (and counting), holding down a job again. It's almost surreal to wonder what "the homeless me" would say about this. I'm sure that I wouldn't believe it. Hell, I wouldn't believe that I'd ever see my 50th birthday, and here I am looking 52 right in the eye.

Which brings me to Lisa. You, my love, never wanted to be responsible for keeping me sober, but in your own way that's exactly what you did. You were the final, essential link in the chain. Thank you for all you did, and thank you for bringing me home to the mountains, which is as close to Heaven as I can get for now. (As long as I stay on my meds  and don't drink.)