Waking up in a hospital bed, completely disconnected from reality, is a surreal and terrifying experience. I remember lying there, aware only in fragments—seeing shadows, hearing voices, but not understanding where I was or why I couldn’t move. I was trapped in my own body, unable to breathe, panic rising as I tried to signal to my sister that something was wrong. I didn’t realize a breathing tube was keeping me alive or that other tubes were removing the remnants of the massive overdose I had taken the day before.
The confusion in my mind was mirrored by the horror on my family’s faces. I will never forget the looks they gave me—the fear, the heartbreak, the unanswered questions in their eyes. And though it was difficult to process at the time, I now understand how close I came to not being here.
People often ask what you see when you’re that close to death. The truth is, there was nothing. No tunnel, no light—just numbness. I had been drinking cheap wine and swallowing pills with a kind of hollow determination. I wasn’t thinking about tomorrow. I just wanted the pain to stop. At the time, it felt like the only way out of the darkness. I thought it might even feel poetic, cinematic—like in a film. But there was nothing romantic about it. My heart pounded, the room spun, and suddenly, I knew I was dying.
Then, something shifted.
In that final moment, I reached out. I called the only number I knew by heart—my Nanna’s. I couldn’t see properly, my voice was faint, but I managed one word: “Help.” Miraculously, she was there within minutes. She sat next to me, went to the kitchen to get help, and then everything went black. What I didn’t witness was the ambulance arriving, the paramedics restarting my heart, intubating me, and rushing me to the hospital.
In the coma, I drifted in a strange dreamlike state. I wasn’t fully aware, but I could sense movement around me. At one point, I felt the weight of a large, ugly dog jumping onto my hospital bed. It lay beside me as if to keep me company—some sort of silent guardian—until I woke up.
When I finally regained consciousness, I was transferred to the psychiatric ward. It was there I met others who, like me, were living through their own silent battles. I was also diagnosed with bipolar disorder, which helped me make sense of the extreme highs and lows I had been experiencing for years.
I wrote most of this story while sitting on a train to London, ten years ago, trying to figure out why I survived. I didn’t have an answer then, and on some days, I still don’t. But today, I have children. I have moments of joy. I have a life I never thought possible.
I’m not cured. I still struggle. But I’m here. And that, in itself, is something worth holding onto.
