April 24, 2025
By: Rachel Linwood

I’ve never told anyone this. Not my friends, not my family, not even the therapists I pretended to open up to. I guess I’m telling the internet now. Maybe because I’m tired of carrying it alone.

Almost two years ago, I tried to end my life. Not for the first time, but definitely the quietest. The least dramatic. I didn’t write a note, didn’t cry, didn’t scream into a pillow. I just took a handful of pills—more than I knew I should—and laid down like I was just going to take a nap and not wake up.

I didn’t die. I woke up the next morning in agony. My stomach was twisted in pain, and I was throwing up nonstop. It was Saturday. I didn’t say anything. I just said I felt sick. On Sunday, the pain was worse—sharp, like someone had carved something into me. I finally told my mom.

She guessed appendicitis. I didn’t correct her.

We waited it out for a bit longer, but by late afternoon, we were on our way to the ER. I was terrified. Not because of the pain, but because I thought they’d find out. I kept picturing the doctor walking in with a clipboard saying, “You overdosed. We’re admitting you to the psychiatric ward.”

I’d already been hospitalized once, years earlier, after an attempt I couldn’t hide. That one I told my mom about. That one I owned. But this one… this one felt different. Quieter. Like it almost didn’t count because I kept it secret.

But it did count. Even if nobody else knew.

They ran tests. Asked questions. And somehow… nothing came up. They said it was likely a stomach bug, maybe some inflammation. Nothing serious. I went home. I carried on.

But I’ve never forgotten those days. I remember sitting in that hospital bed, listening to my heartbeat, wondering if anyone could hear how loud my guilt was pounding inside me. I remember thinking: “If I make it through this, I won’t try again.” But I didn’t keep that promise for long.

I’ve gotten better at pretending. Smiling. Working. Living. But some days, I still feel like that same kid, clutching their stomach and wondering if anyone can tell they’re quietly breaking inside.

I’m still here. I don’t know what that means yet. But I guess this is my first step toward saying something. Anything.

If you’re reading this and feeling even a sliver of what I felt—please tell someone. It doesn’t have to be like this forever.

— Rachel Linwood