Another year, another cry-for-help suicide attempt. On Friday night, I took about twenty Valium and mixed bleach and ammonia in a bucket. I locked myself in the closet with the fumes and stuffed a towel under the door.

And then I called Amanda, to tell her I was sorry. She called 9-1-1, and before I knew it, I was in an emergency room drinking charcoal. (Talk about a cure that's worse than the disease. The valium probably wouldn't have killed me anyway, and it turns out those fumes aren't fatal, just profoundly irritating.)

I'm not happy that I lived. I'm not relieved. I'm even a little mad at my friend for calling the ambulance. I'm not about to try again, because I will surely fail again, and just hate myself more. If I can't succeed in killing myself, then I might as well concentrate on trying to make this life of mine more bearable.