Kyleigh Leist
Marketing Director
TW: Suicide
Two years.
Two years since February 19, 2023.
Two years since I tried to end my pain.
I remember every detail of what came next. The cold bathroom tiles. The suffocating quiet. The moment everything went dark. And then—waking up. Waking up when I wasn’t supposed to. Waking up to the blinding fluorescent lights in the ER, the taste of activated charcoal still burning my throat, the sharp tug of an IV in my arm. Waking up to doctors speaking in clipped, indifferent tones, deciding my fate like I wasn’t even in the room. Then the transfer—escorted through locked doors, stripped of my identity, handed a set of scrubs that didn’t feel like mine. The intake questions, the mandatory check-ins, the dull realization that for the next seven days, my world would be confined to a place where time barely moved. Waking up when I truly thought I wouldn’t.
Two years later, and I still carry that night with me.
Some people would call this an anniversary. But what’s there to celebrate? This isn’t a victory lap. It’s not a milestone to toast to. It’s a day I try to outrun, a day I try to distract myself from, because the weight of it, the shame of it, feels unbearable when the date stares me in the face.
I wish I could say time has made it easier. But trauma doesn’t work like that.
Certain foods still taste like regret. Certain drinks still make my stomach turn. Certain songs still feel like a punch to the chest. I still can’t erase the memories that resurface uninvited, like ghosts that refuse to rest. PTSD doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t need a reason.
And the hardest part? The conversations.
There are no easy words for what happened that night, for what it did to me—what it did to the people who love me. I have had some of the hardest, rawest, most painful conversations with my partner about it. About the weight I placed on their shoulders. About the fear, the helplessness, the questions they still don’t have answers to. About the guilt I carry for putting them through it, and the guilt I carry for still feeling like this two years later.
Because that’s the thing—I haven’t “moved on.” I haven’t “let it go.” I still wrestle with the anger.
Angry that I let myself get to that point.
Angry that I lost friendships I thought were forever.
Angry that I still don’t know how to heal what I broke.
I tell myself I should be better by now. That two years should have been enough time. But time doesn’t erase wounds. It just puts space between you and them. Some scars fade. Some don’t. And this one still bleeds.
But I am healing.
Not in some grand, overnight way, but in the quiet, unremarkable moments. In the way I let people in more. In the way I’m learning to forgive myself, even when it feels impossible. In the way I remind myself that my past does not make me unworthy of love or understanding.
I don’t wake up on this day feeling triumphant. I wake up and do what I can to get through it. I keep myself busy. I push down the feelings that claw their way to the surface. I try to avoid the quiet moments where the memories creep in. I don’t celebrate this day—I survive it.
And surviving, in itself, is something to be proud of.
Because two years ago, I didn’t think I would make it to today.
But I did.
And I will keep going. Not just because I have to, but because deep down, I want to. Even on the hard days. Even on this day.
Even when healing still feels far away, I know I am walking toward it.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
For now. And for all the days to come.
_________
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