A sad truth about attempting suicide is that often the only ones noticed are those who succeed. Yet every year, about a million Americans try to kill themselves, and fail.

Their stories often go unspoken due to stigma, shame and a fear of triggering dangerous ideas in others. (Talking about suicide in the context of care and empathy does not, in fact, lead to more suicide.) This silence in society has consequences—survivors frequently experience deep isolation, while family members, friends and mental health professionals are left with little insight on how they can connect with those struggling with suicidal thoughts.

Though the climate of secrecy is changing. Through online forums, peer-to-peer support groups and taboo-breaking movements such as Live Through This and Time To Change, people are talking about their attempts and finding compassion, connection and the strength to step back into their lives.

In a haunting Ask Reddit thread, three survivors wrote openly about the day they tried to end their pain. We spoke with them about the moments before, during and after their attempts, along with their reflections today.

David, 31

Age at suicide attempt: 15

What do you remember about the day?

There wasn’t a specific thing that prompted it. My life was a mess—my mom and dad had lost their parental rights when I was 13 and I was living with my grandfather, an abusive alcoholic who’d say things to me like, “You’re gonna be a drug addict just like your parents.” I had this feeling that nobody really loved me and I was never going to fit in and have a place in the world. I was just so tired of feeling this way. I liked not being awake. I didn’t think anyone would miss me.

I went to school and it was just a normal day. That evening, I grabbed two 100-count bottles of Tylenol PM and laid out all the pills in little groups of five. One bottle was partly used, so in total, there were 183 pills.

I took them five at a time, with a little break between each, over the course of an hour or two. It became this sort of a mechanical act—just something to do, like doodling with a pen. I was sitting in my room watching Walker: Texas Ranger and Kung Fu: The Legend Continues on TNT Network. My grandfather might have been home. I don’t remember. I was numb.

It didn’t hit me what I had done until I was finished.

That’s when I started thinking, “This is the end. This is the end of my story.”

I wasn’t very religious so I didn’t think there was going to be a happy afterlife or anything waiting for me. And that really freaked me out. I thought about calling somebody, but I didn’t know who to call and I thought that might make things worse. I was fighting these different urges—one to try to live and the other to just lay down and accept what I had done. In the end, I gave up. I found my cat, Minnie, who we had found in a garbage chute, and gave her a hug. I told her, “I love you, but I have to go.”

At that point, I broke down crying. I realized there were still things in the world that I cared about and that made me happy. There were still things that I wanted to hang onto, but it was too late. I cried myself to sleep.

I woke up about a day and a half later, weak and groggy and covered in crunchy greenish blue vomit. I’d puked enough to live. I was so relieved, so happy. Friends had tried calling me to ask why I didn’t go to school.

The next couple of days, I felt good again. I was seeing all the things in my life that were so good—normal things like being able to walk around and see the trees and see my pet. Even my food tasted better.

What are your thoughts now?

In the years after that day, my life actually got worse than it already was, several times over. I never tried killing myself again, though, because I remember that at that final moment, I didn’t want to die.

I’ve had so many amazing life experiences that I would have missed out on if I had died, you know? I traveled the world. I fell in love. I went to college and then law school. I’ve done all these things that back then, I never would have thought were possible. I would have missed out on the best part of my life.

It does get better. It got better for me.

Vivian, 27

Age at suicide attempt: 17

What do you remember about the day?

I spent my “last” day trying to come to peace with my decision.

I woke up at around 9 AM I had planned the entire day out in advance, and knew exactly what I would do. My parents left for work and I skipped school.

I sat on the floor of my bedroom in silence. Thinking. Trying to come to terms with the fact that I was planning to kill myself that evening. I guess it was ritualistic in a sense. The day took on a meditative, surreal quality. I made myself a light meal and a pot of tea, and sat down on the floor with my laptop and began to write my notes. I wrote a note to every person who had been influential in my life. I wrote one to my mother, my father, my brother, my teachers, my friends. It took me the entire day. Some of them were warm and beautiful; others were bitter and curt and angry. I figured it would be my final chance to tell each and every person exactly what I thought of them.

I wrote things in those notes I would’ve never said out loud. I told so many of my friends that I loved them, despite the fact that I was known in my social circle as being quite cold. I had always loved them, I’m just not a very demonstrative kind of person. But I wanted them to know, beyond a doubt, that I did. I told my mother I’m sorry I wasted 17 years of her money. I told my brother that I thought he should open his eyes and his mind. I told my abusive father to go fuck himself.

That night, when everyone was asleep, I crept down to my father’s gun cabinet at around 3 AM. It was quiet. Really, really quiet. I was strangely at peace. It was almost meditative.

I stole a bottle of whiskey from the liquor cupboard and downed half of it. I knew where my father kept his gun cabinet keys, so I had stolen them the night before. I opened the cabinet and grabbed a pistol.

I held that gun to my head for such a long, long time. I was scared and excited and angry and sad and happy and resigned and terrified.

My survival instincts kicked in and I thought about the things in my life that I’d done and hadn’t done, about the people who would be affected by this, about what my school’s reaction might be. I thought about what my funeral would look like.

I held the gun to my head, then put it down. Held it up, put it down. This went on for a very, very long time.

I finally pulled the trigger.

It didn’t fire. It wasn’t loaded.

I suddenly felt an overwhelming, immense sensation of relief. I was in tears, and giggling madly. It was absurd. I came crashing back down to reality. I thought, “What the hell am I doing?”

I went to bed. I’ve never tried it again since. Someday I think I’ll have the courage to say what I wrote down to the people in real life.

What are your thoughts now?

That day made my world a lot bigger. I started to realize that everything in my life, all my problems, were very trivial.

There’s a fellow who’s very well known for jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge and surviving. He said that just before he hit the water, he regretted letting go of the rail. That’s exactly what I was experiencing. I was sitting there with a gun to my head and that sense of ambivalence was really incredible. That contributed to the sense of relief I felt afterward.

I ended up working at a suicide hotline and that was very reflective. I got to see a lot of the commonalities among people who were suicidal—they had a sort of tunnel vision, a worldview that was so narrow. And that made me very sad because I know that a lot of the life circumstances they were in and problems they were having were overcomable. In terms of emotions, the biggest predictor of suicide is hopelessness. And these were people who were experiencing extreme hopelessness. They were very incapable of seeing past their own pain.

Deciding to kill yourself is a huge decision. It’s the most significant decision, literally, that you will make in your entire life. It warrants every shred of effort that you have before you give up. You need to reach out. You really need to reach out. There are treatments out there. I was able to see the bigger picture.

Making a suicide attempt is like having a teacher who administers the test first and then teaches the lesson afterward. Unfortunately, for a lot of people who do complete suicide, that lesson never comes.

Christina, 23

Age at suicide attempt: 18

I woke up feeling quite serene and hopeful about the future. The day before, my doctor had given me a prescription for Xanax, and I was looking forward to finally having a sense of control.

It was the most perfect day as I walked toward the bus and went to work. I was a receptionist. I started texting my boyfriend and we ended up getting into a big fight over something. The things he said to me were so horrible. He was my final support, my shelter away from my family.

I’d been feeling a real dullness. Looking at my life from the outside, I had no real reason to be unhappy. I had my health. I had a job. I didn’t know what I wanted to do for a career, but that seemed normal. I went from being such an outgoing person at school to someone who couldn’t go to a close friend’s party without completely freaking out. I didn’t know who I was anymore. I was clinging onto life for no real reason.

So I just decided this was it. I got up, walked out and caught the bus home. As soon as I stepped off the bus, I rediscovered the most divine of feelings: purpose. A purpose to die, yes, but that was so much more than no purpose at all. I watched grey-faced commuters stream past me, going to work, to the shops, to their homes. It seemed like such a life of pointless repetition. I felt so calm. Serene. For the first time in my memory the heavy dullness in the back of my head had lifted. “Ohh…” I breathed, “So this is happiness.”

I walked into the house, my childhood home.

I memorized the way the sunlight touched the furniture, and the smell of the dust, leather and carpet. I gave my dog a kiss and walked through every room, crying and saying goodbye.

I looked at photos of Christmas trees and family gatherings—happy things that no longer felt part of my life. I just remembered the yelling and the fear and the isolation in my own home. I was so desperate to go.

My mom was a nurse so we always had a pretty big first aid kit. I began systematically collecting medications: paracetemol, codeine, ibprofen, antihistamines, anti-nausea pills, everything.

I stripped down to my undies and climbed into my boyfriend’s duckie pajama pants and my favorite United Nations tee. I breathed in his smell and trembled. I turned on the CD he made for me.

I divided 49 remaining sleeping pills into two neat piles. In one swallow I took half along with the other medication. The effect was near instantaneous.

I started texting. To my mom: “I love you.” To my dad: “I wish you loved me more.” To my sisters: “I’m sorry.” And to him? “Please, tell me one more time you love me.”

For five minutes, I waited for a reply.

I got a piece of paper and scribbled a letter:

“I am so sorry. I am just so desperately unhappy. Please forgive me. Don’t let them cut me up. Love, Christina.”

I checked my phone one last time. I had a missed call from my mom, a text from my sister (“Sorry for what? RU OK? :-)”). And nothing from him.

The other half of the pills went down easily. My chest felt heavy. I stood up one last time, threw my head back and laughed manically.

I “died” to “No Sound But the Wind” by Editors.

I woke up three days later in the ICU with my dad, who hadn’t said a word to me in nine months, holding my hand.

What are your thoughts today?

When I woke up, I was very angry that it hadn’t worked, and felt extremely vulnerable. I was transferred to a mental hospital and on constant watch. It took years before I felt grateful that I am able to have a second chance.

For everything I went through, I feel that I’m a lot more resilient. I pick my battles and tell myself, ‘This is not going to upset me today.” It finally hit me as clear as day that I wanted to be a nurse. I’ve finished my first year of nursing school. I feel very in control in my life.

I have found that as my story of depression and suicide has faded more into history, it’s something I spend less and less time thinking about, which is a good thing, but also less time talking about. It can be difficult to discuss — it’s something I often just want to forget about. But I do feel a certain level of responsibility in sharing my story.

If I could give advice to my 17- or 18-year-old self, or anyone in a similar situation, it would be that it can get more than better. Life can have meaning, and you can have control. It may be a long, hard road, but it’s not one that you have to travel alone.

If you or someone you know need help, call 1-800-273-8255 for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline.

All illustrations by Li-Anne Dias/Upvoted