Only a few weeks after I'd been inpatient for suicidal ideation, I ran across a full bottle of Methadone tablets. My sister had lived with me for a while and she used them for chronic pain; by that time she'd moved to an assisted living facility and there was no use for those pills because they were giving them to her at the home.

I think God must've been watching out for me, letting me get past the worst of the depression before finding the Methadone. There must have been 100 of them in that bottle. Way more than enough to finish the job my depression had started. At first I just sat down on the toilet with the bottle in my hand, thinking (very briefly!) that I ought to hang onto them, just, you know, in case. Then I stood up, poured the contents into the toilet and flushed. It may not have been environmentally correct, but better to sacrifice a few fish than my life. I was so proud of myself for doing that. I still am.