I was dizzy and confused when I woke up in North Middlesex Hospital. It felt like hot water had been poured down my throat, the scolding liquid occasionally touching the sides, leaving burns that turned to flame whenever I tried to cough. Somehow, I knew I was too weak to stand up, and there was something in my arm, pulling at my skin. The new bandages on my self-harm scars were already loose, but my first frustration — my first coherent thought — was how difficult it was going to be to scrub off the residue left by the nodes stuck all over my body.
This was maybe the second or third time I had tried to kill myself. The realisation that I’d been unsuccessful didn’t mean much to me. Once I was out of the hospital, out of the Uber and helped up the stairs to my bed, I was already cutting up the day into things I’d need to do before I could start drinking again and allow myself to cry.
That was life in 2018, when I’d just turned 30, and it continued that way for years.
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