Three of 'em, None Serious
Although I’ve had two serious suicide attempts (only one placing my life in danger), most of my ‘attempts’ have been suicidal gestures, meaning I did not intend to die. I will say, though, that although I didn’t aim for death, I was rather apathetic about it. I didn’t care if I lived or died.
I first messed around with suicide when I was about 12. My parents were at a party, and I’d been depressed lately. I found a bottle of Tylenol, and I took at least half the bottle. I wanted my parents to know how bad I was feeling, and I was curious to see what it was like to try and die. However, I panicked, and called my father. He and my mom rushed home, and after unsuccessfully trying to get me to vomit, they rushed me to the hospital. Because of my age, the doctors chose not to put me in a psychiatric hospital. They told my parents to lock up the meds, and sent us on our way.
A few years passed, and an incident came up in which my school kicked me out because I was transgender. I was depressed and angry, and I took several of my psychiatric meds. Before they were able to do anything, I was able to pull myself together, and ask for help. I was rushed to the hospital, and locked up in a psychiatric ward for a day. When I got out, everyone was very concerned, though I tried to avoid the topic.
On my last ‘attempt’, I was staying with some friends at the time, and I took a bottle of Tylenol. Of course, my friend called the hospital on me, and later sent me 22 text messages explaining why I shouldn’t kill myself.
So although I wasn’t really intending to die with these attempts, the only reason I really got help was because I was (and still am) afraid of death. I wouldn’t call these attempts; they were more cries for attention than anything else.