A Stroke Of (Suicide) Luck


As I lay in bed I look at the TV that’s silent and staticky. My fan is blowing in circles and my heart is racing. I lay there, naked, not really sad, just nothing. I kept thinking about how I would kill myself.

I don’t own a gun but it seems easy enough to get one. Then I thought about how the shower would be the best suicide spot, but only if I could cover myself in a high quality, thick trash bag. I would shoot myself in the head with the water running, me covered in a bag, and the cleanup would be very minimal. My parents are super clean and I couldn’t stand the thought of my mother having to clean up the dead mess that is her son.

Then I realized how much thought I was putting into the cleanup, not the actual suicide. I think I knew deep down I would never do it. I’m scared of guns and death and most importantly, what it would do to my family. Plus what a bitch way to go out.


I went to a psychiatrist who told me I was suffering from depression and severe anxiety, which I’d know for years. It’d be like me telling her she eats far too many Twinkies (RIP) and the cans of Coke on her desk should be labeled diabetes. She wanted to put me on a drug called Seroquel. On top of that she wanted me to take three Clonazepam per day, plus Xanax when needed. I didn’t know any better so I followed the instructions. After memory loss, speech impediment, falling down a flight of stairs, body twitching, and constantly sleeping, my sister decided to research this drug Seroquel. And, it’s bad. Very very bad.

It is mainly used for PTSD, or people with severe bi-polar or schizophrenia, none of which I have. I just have minor depression and anxiety. Seroquel causes suicide, and for a lack of a better term freak-outs. Not the typical “side effects included” kind of stuff. The worst part? The government was pushing this drug, trying to get doctors to push it like Stringer Bell.


I was rushed to the hospital because I could no longer speak and was days away from death. Everyone thought it was a stroke. The drug messes with your mind and makes you not care. You don’t care about anything, your life, your health, anything. A stroke of bad luck, I suppose.


As I lay here, in what can be nothing other than detox, thinking about how I would kill myself, I can’t help but laugh because I wasn’t worried about death, or pain, or the pain it would cause my family, I was just worried about the mess it would leave.

I’m all better now and I only use trash bags for trash. But the main lesson I learned, and that I want every one of you to know is to investigate the medication doctors give you. They push what they need to get rid of, it’s not always about what’s best for you; it’s what’s best for them. And that is scary. It’s so easy to research medications and ask your doctor questions. If he/she doesn’t really know the answer, then don’t take it.

Nobody should go in with a little anxiety problem and leave with a horrible anxiety problem because you don’t know if you’re taking a death pill. Do your homework. And never ever hurt yourself, there’s too many selfish, and I can only think regretful people out there filling that gap.

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