It sounds kind of stupidly obvious, but I wish I hadn’t attempted suicide three years ago. Because then I wouldn’t have been hospitalized (also stupidly obvious), which removed all of my sick days for that year, forcing me to go to work when I was physically ill, which eventually burned me out. And, since I was so burned out and depressed from bad advice given by a therapist who was assigned to me despite her specialty being in drug addiction–I didn’t even drink at the time–I decided to accept a promotion at the bad workplace I was at instead of accepting a better-paying job at another location, because I was so down I thought I’d bomb out there. I ended up working for a terror of a boss who worked me into the ground, and my depression blossomed into a full-blown case of bipolar disorder. And then…well, I’ve talked about it elsewhere here, but to make a long story short I ended up having to take a job 1500 miles away from my family to get out of the bad workplace.
There’s a direct line from my suicide attempt to the fact that I’m sitting here alone and depressed so far from home, hoping I can cure my bipolar with meds, miles, and writing. I knew from when it happened it wouldn’t lead to anything good, but I didn’t think it would be that bad.