On the evening of October 1st 2016 I tried to kill myself.

Suicide is far from being a subject that most people think worthy to show in public.

I imagine that right now thousands of people in the world are coming out of a self induced comma, or walking again after an accident caused by their own subtle carelessness... Carelessness to which some of us allow ourselves to yield when life seems to us more pernicious than death.

Most of the time, I dare say, those who fail in trying not to open their eyes again choose to keep their attempt silent because of shame (their own or somebody else's), for fear to rejection from the moral rule according to which love for life must be an unquestionable parameter regardless of the misery lived, the broken dreams, or false depression.

They come back to life and remain just there, boxed, silenced by the a deal held implicitly with the good family or the good friends who welcomed the suicidal despite being just that (despite not having died). I don't share the belief that painful moments must be bowdlerized from memory or cut off from the personal biography.

That's why I write even about this. Even. Because it's a real an sincere story, and every such real and sincere story is worthy of being told without guilt or shame, healed from the lack of understanding of those whose own stories are not as restless believe that, because of that, they have a right do throw dirt on other people's.

So on the night of October 1st 2016 I wanted, I could, I tried to kill myself.

The number 750 has become important for me because it is the exact amount of milligrams of Amitriptyline I put into my body.

I had read before that 300 grams is the maximum dose for patients under hospital care. I assumed I would die and it seemed hideous, painful as few things hurt in life, and, at the same time (even if only clinical psychologists and some few connoisseurs can understand) liberating.

I have never known anybody who tried suicide, but in that moment I knew the part of me that wanted to die just as some things want to be born (like flower in spring, or love).

I knew myself more in a single night that what I could have in a full decade o self imposed introspection, and I discovered that some situations are loaded with so much emotional weight that the body gives up and plots towards the most unexpected enterprises, because the heart has already surrendered.

It is always difficult to make those who have never felt an emptiness so dreadful on the top of the stomach, bad enough to try and kill yourself, understand those who have felt it for years and have tried once.

That is why those who do not understand other people's pain are risking to spit on a wound from which they will, later, declare themselves ignorant..

I cannot name every reason than can drive somebody to suicide, but I can name the one thing that could have prevented me from closing my eyes that evening and never wake up again: the desire to live.

It's not about complying scrupulously with the alarm clock's routine, not even about having dreams and aspirations, goals set in short and long term, a 600 square yard house chiseled in the mind (even if the foundations alone take a full life time to build) or a devotion of years to a bank account to get high numbers and thus to feel important and independent.

I had all that and it was useless.

The desire to live, which I never had, has nothing to do with having and keeping but with letting go. With acknowledging one self as a tiny droplet surrounded with a wonderful chaos of sounds and colors, with being able to feel an adult's rage and indignation and not allowing yourself to go to bed without having forgiven as loosely as a child.

The desire to live cannot be bought, cannot be built, cannot be replaced, cannot be negotiated.

The desire to live must be discovered, as one would discover the treasure of human existence hidden in the union of two loving bodies.

Oh, so you have never tried suicide, personally?

It matters little if you have been living without the desire to live.

If you have sold your days to that job you hate so much, if you curse when it's time to get up, if you go to bed with your belly sated but hungry for the life you'll never have, why did you kill yourself in soul and spirit before your time?

Ever since I came back to life after being asleep for 48 hours, I've heard people say I'm depressive, selfish, mad and that, in the final analysis, that's why I tried to kill myself.

As a deduction it's respectable and logical, but also superficial as lives currently are.... From those who live without desire and die out of inertia, of old age or sickness, or of dreams or awakenings.

I am fully aware I could have died and that it's a miracle (I happen to believe in them now) that I didn't. I'm not proud of that action nor I neglect the distress of those who had to deal with it, but I'm far from feeling regret because only the experience falling asleep slowly without knowing if tomorrow would arrive, made me realize the desire I have to live.

It made me realize that another part of me, some part in some place, didn't want to die before or now. And only now I know that part is a child and a grown woman at the same time, and it reaches out to the other, it forgives it, it embraces it, it owns it as surely you and I have seen that lovers take possession of each other that deny their love while they do love each other.

Because some pains, even when they're told, cannot be felt but in your own skin. And some scars are worthy and it's worth life itself to have them in visible places so you can remind yourself of what was, what could have been and what is.

I recently heard again that I am depressive so they chose to uproot any chance of love towards me and through me.

To that person (whom I still love): the depressed you refer to died a few days ago. I've taken her place and I have a wild wild desire to live.