The Semicolon Under My Skin: Surviving A Suicide Attempt.
- Lou Grimberg
- 2 days ago
- 5 min read
Updated: 2 days ago
Trigger Warning: Description of suicide attempt.
The needle whirrs and purrs, and an image of a naked woman reading a book, her head exploding into fireworks, slowly appears on my skin. The ceiling’s pattern looks beautiful from where I am, despite the intense brightness of the tattoo artist’s lights. This is my fourth tattoo—but unlike the first three, this one carries a deeper, sadder meaning.
The book the woman is reading has a semicolon on the cover. Popularised in 2013 by Amy Bleuel, the semicolon became a symbol of perseverance, resilience, and hope in the face of mental health struggles, depression, and suicidal ideation. According to Project Semicolon, a suicide prevention organisation set up by Amy, “It represents a sentence that the author could have ended, but chose not to. The sentence is your life and the author is you”.
If someone wears a semicolon, it is a sign that their life (or the life of a loved one) did not end; it merely momentarily paused. Which is exactly what happened to my life on June 12th, 2022.
That year, I was completing my Post Graduate Certificate of Education (PGCE) to become a languages teacher. I had moved from France to the UK eight months prior, away from friends and family, with only a small—albeit wonderful—support system. I had struggled with my mental health since I was 14, when I was first prescribed antidepressants. Then, after the first lockdown in 2020, I was hospitalised for five weeks with severe depression and anxiety, following weeks of suicidal ideation.
Moving across the Channel to undertake a particularly demanding year of study may not have been my best idea, but I had met a wonderful man and was slowly building a life for myself. I never once stopped to question whether crying myself to sleep almost every night, or waking up every morning feeling anxious, would eventually have consequences.
On June 12, my best friend and I went to see ABBA Voyage. We then went for drinks in the sun with my boyfriend and some friends, and following an anxiety and alcohol-fuelled fight with my boyfriend, I stumbled back home, too drunk, disoriented, and still buzzing from the surreal experience of ABBA Voyage.
I remember walking back from the train station, confused and numb. I stood on the bridge over the tracks, annoyed that the protective railings wouldn’t let me jump. I made it home, body swaying, tears tightening my throat. I shut my bedroom door behind me. The emotions rushed in—uncontrollable, fierce, unforgiving.
I remember standing in front of the mirror and not being able to understand what I was seeing. The blurred shape of a person crying stared back at me. Nothing seemed real, nothing except the pain inside—a giant, oozing chasm inside me. Thousands of images and sounds clashed together in my head: from my life in London, and other, more painful memories from two, ten, fifteen years before. And words, so many of them, swirling, sneering, telling me how much better the world would be without me. How relieved my friends, my family and my boyfriend would feel if they finally, finally were rid of this depressed, anxious, awkward, annoying, ridiculous person.
For years, I had been living with intrusive and suicidal thoughts. I had seen five or six different therapists. I had tried so many medications. I had been hospitalised. And yet, despite moments of happiness, I would still tumble back inside my world of darkness, over and over and over again. All I wanted was to never feel again—all I wanted was to float in something as close to the unknown as possible. All I wanted was for all of this to stop.
I turned to my bedside table, where a pile of medications sat beside a full glass of water. Something, an inexplicable force, pulled me down onto the mattress. I unlocked my phone and tried to call every person I loved: my mum, my sisters, my best friends. A Saturday night, it wasn’t surprising that none of them picked up—I didn’t really give them a chance. My brain twisted it as a sign that nobody needed me—nobody would miss me. I swallowed pill after pill.
Then, what felt like a slap across my face: I was going to die. In a panic, I called my partner: ‘I don’t want to die,’ I repeated between frantic sobs. The world around me blurred, its edges softened, things inside my head quietened. There was a knock on my front door. I stood up to open—then, nothing.
I lost about twelve hours. The only fragment of hazy memory I have is lying in a hospital bed and begging my boyfriend to let my university tutor know that I wasn’t going to be able to hand in my essay in time. Talk about priorities.
I fully came back to my senses at five o’clock in the morning, after I had been discharged from my local A&E. The following two weeks were spent bed-bound, drowning in guilt and shame. A rotation of psychiatric nurses and therapists sat on the battered chair right next to my bed, patiently listening to all the reasons why I attempted suicide. I poured the weight of my self-hatred right into their hands. I told them how convinced I’d been that the world would be a better place without me in it. That I was a bad person, and even worse for what I had done.
Each and every one of them listened, without judgment. They all had the right words. I couldn’t stop thanking them—I still believe we take the NHS for granted.
With the help of these professionals and my loved ones, I slowly rebuilt my pulverised sense of self. I went for walks around the house. I looked up at the trees, at the squirrels, at the clouds. I listened to hours of Céline Dion and watched hours of The Vampire Diaries. I cooked some terrible meals—and some really good ones. I reread my favourite book and discovered some extraordinary new ones. I laughed. So much. Laughter, more than anything else, pulled me through. I firmly believe laughing will save the world.
Amy Bleuel founded Project Semicolon after losing her father to suicide. In 2013, she put out a call on social media for people struggling with mental illness or suicide ideation to draw a semicolon on their wrist and share a photo on social media with the caption ‘Your Story Isn’t Over’.
Amy lost her life to suicide in 2017, after living with depression for so long. But her legacy carries on; on their website, Project Semicolon offers a plethora of helpful resources, from assessment tests, symptom checkers, to medically reviewed articles. Their aim is simple: to help prevent suicide, but also to put an end to the culture of shame surrounding suicide.
This is why I got this tattoo: I am not ashamed. No one should be ashamed of their pain. It’s what makes us so beautifully human. It’s also a hopeful reminder, for when I struggle: I can get through this, I did it before.
If you or a loved one struggles with suicidal thoughts, there are countless ways to reach out, here are but a few:
This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.