Defining what truly counts as a "suicide attempt" is more complicated than it seems.
Technically, it should refer to an act carried out with a real intention to die, which failed only due to external or accidental causes (a mistake, an unexpected rescue, etc.).
But in medical, legal, and social contexts, what really matters is the narrative: if you say you wanted to do it, if you stage something that can be interpreted as a suicidal intent, even without completing the act, you are already counted as a "suicide attempt."
If you climb on a stool with a rope around your neck and then call for help, you're in the statistics, even if you never really intended to go through with it.
For society, an attempt isn't what you did, but what you claim you meant to do.
What counts is the story, not the act.
The performance, not the real risk.
The language, not the proximity to death.
And that's exactly where the famous 20 attempts per successful suicide come from.
News reports are full of people "saved from suicide" who were standing on a bridge, waiting even thirty minutes for authorities to arrive and talk them down.
But if someone really intends to jump, do you think they wait half an hour?
A desperate act is swift, silent — it doesn't wait for applause or sirens.
And so, the statistics swell with announced attempts, stage plays of anguish that often speak the language of pain more than that of death.