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Sometimes I felt like I belonged to s secret society of suicidal people. When I was in the hospital, I met a nice woman who was also suicidal and we spent a lot of time bonding while discussing the different ways to kill yourself. We even formed "Club Charcoal": We'd ask each new arrival on the ward if they knew what charcoal was. (It's a nasty, gluey black stuff they make you drink after an overdose to absorb the toxins. It gets all over you when you drink it and you end up with black stains on your hands, lips, the sheets, just all over. Everyone I know who has ever OD'd has charcoal memories.) If they did, they'd burst out laughing in the realization that they were in a place where people understood.