I had a dream that I was going to end my life. I borrowed someone’s revolver, loaded it, and tried to find somewhere alone. Someone must have called emergency services.

I was by a dumpster when someone came by and started talking to me. I felt sad, scared, and hurt throughout the whole ordeal. I didn’t really want to die, but I was in pain, overwhelmed, and broken. I don’t fully understand why this seemed like the only solution; it just felt that way. I remember being torn up in the dream, thinking about it constantly. There was regret, but also desperation.

As we spoke, I put the gun away and didn’t want to die anymore.

Somehow, I made it home, but emergency services arrived and insisted on taking me in. I told them I was okay and didn’t want to go. Then the police got involved. They asked me to come out and let them help, but I refused. I was afraid of being medicated against my will and of what that might mean both during and after the process.

I kept trying to explain that I felt better and just wanted space, but the officers were armed and I was aware that the situation could escalate if I didn’t cooperate. Once again, I felt fear, despair, and frustration. I wished they could see that I just needed room to breathe.

For a moment, I felt a strong urge to assert myself because I was aware that mental health crises can sometimes be difficult for everyone involved, including first responders. I told them I was okay, but they kept approaching.

Just as they were getting close, I woke up.