Standing there, on the ledge.

It was a cold November night, and all I felt was numbness. I looked into the gushing Shannon river, so very deep and dark.

I took one small step towards the ledge but halted when I heard a car in the distance. I turned my head around, seeing that a person had stopped on the nearby road, watching me to see what I would do.

I sighed slightly, before walking back to the sidewalk as if nothing was the matter.

But they had seen straight through me.


That was my second near suicide attempt. It has become a realization to me now, that dying is a lot harder than living. In a way we are all dying, but to go out of one's way to end one's life... it is far more difficult than one would of thought.

My depression came when I was thirteen and left as if by a miracle at age twenty-three.

I like to believe it was a miracle.

That it was something stronger and more powerful than I, a mere human. Only able to deal with the physical and psychological... but the soul, it needed something of real substance.

Jesus... God...

I didn't realize at the time that it would be him that would end up saving me. I had been one of the many mockers of Christ as a teenager. I thought true believers were a bit kooky. Their happiness seemed intangible, and there was a certain air of hope and joy around the real deep religious that I just couldn't get a grasp on.

But to know why I came to Christ, instead of Budha or Muhammad, is to know one thing.

Jesus saved me. He saved my life.


I was sixteen when it all happened... I had the biggest crush on a boy in my class, but I myself, was a bit of a loner.

I had two good friends that I used to just hang out with and talk during break times, usually in the canteen, against a radiator, or in the football field if it was a dry sunny day.

Back then, we used to joke that the good days only came when it was time for the end of year tests.

I was doing my Junior Cert, and that meant studying non-stop for months before the actual tests were done.

It was seen as a semi important kind of test, I guess because back then, people used to leave Secondary after completing it sometimes to go on to do an apprenticeship.

It pained me, never being the best in my class. I was a high achiever, and hated when I got Bs instead of As.

I would lock myself in my room for three hours each night, reading, studying, memorizing, re-reading.

The stress was really high.

Sitting on my bed, I was so angry with myself as books and copies lay around me like a circle, almost making me feel like I was trapped in a circle of failure.

There was one good thing that I was praised for but, my art.

At 16, I had an air of confidence around me when it came to art, so in a sense, I didn't even try to improve back then. I had a natural talent for it, and that's all that counted. But I didn't want to be a master of only one field, I want to master everything I put my hands on.

I was never happy with my work, never happy that I couldn't understand Maths, that my English was incorrect grammatically, that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't absorb academic classes the way I did art.

Art, at the time, was merely a second thought of mine.

The other thought I had often as a young teenager, was the supernatural.

I used to go down to the library, picking up books that taught of ghosts, aliens, time travel and all things otherworldly. I was obsessed with the after life, and when I picked up a book about the "ether" or about angels, I was hooked.

I didn't know exactly what I believed in back then, I was like a sponge. I absorbed everything that I laid my eyes on, each new spiritual and supernatural thing tickling my mind and making me cherry pick what was true to me and what was stupid, an after thought.

It was about six months before the Junior Cert that I got a book on Wikka by one of my sister's friends.

She spoke as if there was two kinds of "Magic". One was white, the other black.

I wish I had known then what I know now. All magic is dark.

When it spoke of calling upon your spiritual guider, I imagined Jesus and Mary, just so I would be on the safe side. It was at that time that, even though I knew basically nothing about Jesus, I trusted him at least as a guide, because really, the way the media made him out to be was of a loving hippy.

I wish I had known him properly then, that he was so much more... but at last, for now, I digress.

As I sat in my room, chanting the spell, I pictured my crush in my mind.

A common belief of "witches" was that whatever you put out into the universe, it would come back to you three times as strong.

If you put out bad, you got back three times worse, and vice versa.

Talking of this time in my life brings in me such regret and pain... this was only part of the beginning of my "New Age" approach to life.

Another hobby or "Talent" I had taught myself was to palm read.

I had a giant book that told me everything I needed to know about a person's hand. Of course, I was most curious about my own.

I would study it whenever I got a chance to, often looking over it at night under a lamp in my room.

The lines would fill me with anxiety or worry, but I was obsessed.


Then came the day when everything began to, for the first time but not the last, begin to spin out of control for me in every area I prized.

I was waiting to be seen by a teacher and was seated on a long cushioned lounge with two other girls in my year.

I was a bit nervous but made small talk with them, trying to strike up an interesting topic. And then I ran my mouth, mentioning that I knew palmistry.

The girls looked highly excited over this and asked me to look at their hands. I still wish today I had never.

I held the girls' hands in my own hand, one at a time, gazing around the lines and fingers, and feeling the plumpness and moisture of the skin.

I didn't tell them much, mostly focusing on their personality for that's where palmistry shined. It no more told the future than throwing a coin in a well, making a wish.

After that day, the next morning, at lunchtime, I was sitting with my two friends in the canteen.

It was then, that suddenly my future was set in stone, as students from all ages gathered around me, begging me to look at their hands.

I was flabbergasted, puzzled and lost in how they were so fascinated by this.

After reading three or four palms, I laid my head in my arms, refusing to read more as I shouted.

"No more! Leave me be!"

When they saw that I was avoiding even looking at them, they eventually left me, but my head was spinning from over all the commotion.

One of my best friends found my "talent" for palmistry very intriguing, and even when I gave up the art two years later, it would still be another four or five years before she stopped asking, knowing I wasn't going to cave.

You may be wondering why I'm talking about this and not of where the story is going. Because it was the palmistry and Wikka that I believed brought on my demise.

The insanity of a young girl's mind.

Well, let's just say that a few nights later... I would never see reality the same way...