I'll admit, I have. At several different points.
I'm really lucky to have had my parents growing up. My mom especially.
There are a couple of specific times she could even list that she remembers taking me to the hospital due to my emotional breakdowns. Those weren't pretty, but honestly, had she not, I wouldn't be here.
I also think that at any time that I've ever considered, or tried, to commit suicide I've chickened out. I'm afraid to die. I'm afraid of mortal pain, or irreversible consequences for doing something stupid, especially life-threatening.
The first time I remember making an attempt on my life was shortly after my friend Miles committed suicide himself. My friends and I were so young. None of us knew how to deal with those emotions and life-altering realizations that we lost him, and nobody could ask him why. I don't think we'll honestly ever know all the reasons he did.
This was the first time my mother ever took me to the hospital due to a mental freak-out of mine. I remember intentionally overdosing on insulin so that my blood sugar would plummet and hopefully cause me to go unconscious before dying. It wasn't to be so though. My mom crammed a bunch of sugar-loaded food down me while rushing to the hospital. They ended up not keeping me overnight, but I was there until 3am or so for psychiatric evaluation.
The second time we made a similar hospital run was after I lost my fried Sean. This time didn't involve me attempting to harm myself in any way. I remember being in the bathroom just sobbing and my mother asking me "do you need me to take you to the hospital?" I only remember nodding. And she did just that. God bless you mom. I don't know what my brain was contemplating doing had you not, or had you pretended that "nothing was wrong." Or that "I could handle it." Again, this time I was also not admitted, but the hospital gave me a set of scrubs to wear while on observation to ensure I didn't have anything to harm myself on my person. My mom and I kept these scrubs as a reminder - and as a way for me to not have to say anything if I needed similar action from her in the future. She told me to just "put them on" and she'd respond right away. I wouldn't have to ask or say anything. I can't tell you how many times having those scrubs in the bottom of my dresser drawer kept me sane and focused on the good in my life. I never had to put them on again. Just having them there was enough.
(I never realized how hard it would be to write all this out - I'm literally sobbing while I do because of how blessed I am to have my mommy)
The 3rd attempt I remember was one my friend Jennie Nguyen pulled me out of. I was raped on my High School choir trip. She was my room mate/bed mate for the trip. I remember her taking me out to the service elevator at the hotel, and sitting inside if for couple of hours while she helped me calm my nerves, and get through all the emotional fall-out that I couldn't tell any adult on the trip about. We had been severely threatened as students on the trip that if there was any "boy/girl funny business" there would be no questions asked, and an immediate flight home. I couldn't tell. We hadn't even competed yet. And I wasn't about to have rumors start. To this day a number of my friends still don't know the whole story. It's hard to have to tell someone their friend is a rapist and have them believe you. Especially as a young high school student.
I know I've had several other times when I've feel the desire to end my life. Or times when I've devised several ways in which I could. I'm just glad I haven't. I've seen the fall-out, and all the negative that comes from it. I've seen it rip friends apart, destroy hope, and drown all understanding. I never want to do that to anyone I love. Ever. It's simply not worth it.