How I Beat Suicide

Thought Catalog

A few nights ago I got drunk on gin, intending to listen to some Etta James with the volume turned up shelving books in the library of my new home. Somehow—and I don’t remember how—I ended up locked in the bathroom, having pulled the blades from my razor, covered all over with tears. The metal strips were thinner than I thought they’d be. I couldn’t tell which was the sharp side. I ran an edge along my finger. Blood. Sharp. I traced the fine, blue wires along my wrist with my fingertip. It looked so easy. I’m very pale. I smiled down at my wrists. I never thought I’d go out without a note but the fact of it is I wanted out, and out is out so screw the note.

My fiancé heard me crying. He slid his fingers under the door and I laid my fingers on top…

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