I used to think my bipolar disorder meant I had to suffer, like the ‘tortured geniuses’ Kurt Cobain and Van Gogh When I was 21 I tried to kill myself. It was the evening of the 26 November 2012, at 5:52pm. I remember looking at the clock, aiming for 6pm before thinking – what am I waiting for? I sent texts to loved ones, put up a pre-written Facebook status and attempted to take my own life. Two months later I tried to do it again. This time there was no status, no warning texts, just another brutal attempt. Two months later I tried to do it again. This time, I called an ambulance half way through – alone and scared on the Euston Road. I spent some time at my mum’s, pushing through the pain, surviving second by second. I looked into my future, and I couldn’t see anything. It was dark. Cloudy and obscured. Drained of colour in the way that only a deep dark depression can do.
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