October 22, 2023: The Day That Almost Ended It All
Welcome to Living with Borderline
This blog is my raw, unfiltered journey through life with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). It’s a story of struggle, despair, and the relentless search for peace in a world that often feels chaotic and unforgiving. My name is Echo Solace, and while that’s not my real name, it’s the one I’ve chosen to share the most personal, vulnerable parts of my life. Here, I’ll be unpacking the layers of my experiences, from moments of deep despair to the gradual realization of what has been affecting me for so long. This is a space where I’ll document my battles, my failures, and my ongoing efforts to understand and live with BPD. If you’re here, it might be because you’re on a similar path, or perhaps you know someone who is. Either way, thank you for joining me. Let’s take this journey together.
The Lead-Up:
For as long as I can remember, a sense of impending doom has been my constant companion. It wasn't just a fleeting feeling; it was as if my life operated on a pre-programmed cycle of calm followed by chaos. Whenever things were quiet for a few days, I knew that disaster was just around the corner. These storms, though recurring, were never predictable in their form or intensity, and escaping them seemed impossible. Over time, this relentless cycle left me trapped in survival mode, and eventually, I began to romanticize the idea of escape through death—whether it be by accident, illness, or by my own hand.
By October 2023, this grim fantasy had solidified into a plan. I had been married for 10 years, together with my wife for 13, but the last three years had tested us in ways we never imagined. We hadn’t fallen out of love, but our relationship was fraying under the weight of unmet expectations on both sides. Resentment quietly grew, and my wife’s withdrawal of affection only deepened my internal crisis. My go-to coping mechanism became the fantasy of death. I had taken out a life insurance policy with the knowledge that, after two years, it would cover suicide. Since 2022, my exit strategy had been meticulously planned.
In January 2023, my self-destructive tendencies peaked. While on vacation in India, my wife discovered that I was having an illicit affair with a colleague. When we returned home, I revealed my suicide plans to her. I had procured Nembutal—an animal euthanasia drug—from the black market, paying for it with Bitcoin. I had four bottles, enough to ensure a successful attempt. The vacation was supposed to be my last hurrah. After the confrontation, my wife left for a few days, but eventually, she returned. We sought help from a psychiatrist in India, where I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder (MDD) and guilty tendencies. The doctor prescribed SSRIs, Quetiapine (Seroquel 50 mg), and Dayvigo (10 mg), medications that left me sedated for most of the day. I spent much of 2023 in a haze, sleeping 15-16 hours daily. Therapy sessions with the psychiatrist were a farce—he did most of the talking, leaving me more isolated and disconnected. My depression deepened, and two failed suicide attempts earlier that year only amplified my desperation.
The Day Itself:
October 2023 began like any other day—with an overwhelming desire for it to be my last. Suicidal thoughts had become my daily reality, consuming every moment of my life. These weren’t occasional bouts of despair; they were constant, relentless. The mental and emotional toll of carrying these thoughts day after day was exhausting. On good days, they were a dull ache; on bad days, they were unbearable.
That day, a fight with my wife—one of many—pushed me over the edge. My thoughts had gained so much momentum that it felt impossible to stop them. The argument itself wasn’t anything extraordinary, but it triggered a cascade of emotions that I could no longer control. I was entrenched in a victim mindset, convinced that my struggle with MDD, my battle with depression, and my relentless suicidal thoughts were invisible to those around me. It felt as though no one cared, and that thought alone fueled my resolve.
For months, I had been preparing for this moment. I had resources at my disposal—books like the Peaceful Pill Handbook, countless articles from the internet, and accounts on pro-suicide forums—that fed into my mindset. I had explored every method, every detail, ensuring that when the time came, I wouldn’t fail again.
On this particular day, I decided I couldn’t die inside my home. There were two reasons for this: I didn’t want my family to have to deal with the stigma of a suicide in our home, and I didn’t want to die in a place filled with memories. I went to Canadian Tire and bought a portable disposable charcoal barbecue, planning to die from carbon monoxide inhalation.
This wasn’t an impulsive decision; it was methodically planned. I bought three charcoal barbecues, studied the method in detail, and waited until nightfall to begin. Around midnight, I lit the charcoal in my backyard and waited for the coals to turn red. My father-in-law, seeing the flames, asked what I was doing. I lied, saying I was just barbecuing outside. He didn’t press further.
Once the charcoal was ready, I took 20 mg of Dayvigo, 50 mg of Quetiapine, and washed it down with half a bottle of whiskey. I was preparing to end it all. I placed the barbecue in the trunk of my car, parked on the curb outside my house, and got into the driver’s seat. I locked the doors, turned off the AC, and waited. My heart was racing—partly from the alcohol, partly from the drugs, and partly from the anticipation of what was about to happen. But there was also a strange sense of peace, knowing that this would finally be the end.
The Attempt:
As I sat in the car, the windows fogged up from the moisture, and the air grew thick with carbon monoxide. I felt myself starting to drift off. But then, something unexpected happened. My memory of what followed is fragmented, like a distant dream. I remember getting out of the car, more unconscious than conscious, and taking the still-burning barbecue out of the trunk. I didn’t want to accidentally burn the car down. The next thing I remember is lying face-first on the grass in my front yard, with hot coals burning into my face and back. My spandex top had melted into my skin. Somehow, I managed to get up, stumbling into the house. My father-in-law was still in the kitchen, unaware of what had just transpired. I went upstairs to my room, where my wife and son were sleeping, and collapsed onto the bed.
My wife woke up, sensing something was wrong. She turned on her phone’s light and saw the burns on my face. Panic set in, but she remained calm. She tried to wake me, but I was groggy, disoriented, and disappointed that I had survived.
The Aftermath:
The paramedics arrived quickly after my wife called 911. They found me in bed, barely conscious, with burns on my face and back. I lied to them, telling them that I had accidentally fallen asleep over the barbecue while trying to warm myself up. They accepted the story, but my wife knew the truth. This wasn’t my first suicide attempt, but it was the closest I had come.
At the hospital, they ran tests and found alarming levels of carbon monoxide in my blood. The doctor was concerned about a potential CO leak at home, but I assured him it happened outside. Skeptical but unable to prove otherwise, he referred me to a hyperbaric chamber in a different city to flush the CO from my system. I spent 4-5 hours in the chamber, lying in a glass tube filled with 100% oxygen. The doctors communicated with me through a speaker, and I watched a cricket match on my phone.
During this time, I was texting my parents in India and my wife, who was desperate to see me but didn’t know where I was. Despite everything, I kept up my facade—cracking jokes with the nurses and paramedics, pretending that everything was fine. But inside, I was broken. I was angry that I hadn’t died, disappointed that my attempt had failed, and embarrassed to face my family. The shame and helplessness were suffocating.
This was just one day in my life, living with BPD, though I didn’t know it at the time. I didn’t even know BPD existed, let alone that I had it. All I knew was that something inside me wanted to end it all. This is the beginning of my story—my journey of self-realization and understanding. If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading. I’ll be sharing more in the next part, picking up from where we left off.
Image 2: "Aftermath of Desperation" - The scorched grass in the backyard, a silent witness to the attempt that nearly ended it all.
Moving Forward
In the next part, I’ll dive deeper into the events that followed this day - the hospital stay, the psychiatric care, and the beginning of understanding what BPD really is. This is just the start of a long and difficult journey, one that I’m sharing in the hope that it might resonate with someone else who is struggling. Thank you for reading through...
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