Hello all, I hope this blog finds you well. I have gone over how to write this a thousand times in my head while in the hospital, and it sounded so good, but I never wrote it down. I am just anxious to get back to you all, and a bit weak and certainly tired, so I am just going to lay it out on the table for you. I will likely want to edit this to add in all of the little pieces I am likely to blank on, but I will just have to leave them in the comments. I would like this to be an open discussion. I have always been open & unashamed of my mental illnesses, and want to serve others as best I can whether it be by being educational or a support system or whatever. I hope this is not too upsetting for my readers, because sadness and pity is the farthest from my intentions. I shake as I type this, so please excuse me if there is a plethera of typos in this particular blog. Here we go.
; The symbol for when you could have stopped, but you chose to go on.
These photos were taken in the couple of days leading up to my suicide attempt.
If you have read any of my blogs before, you know that I battle a number of mental illnesses. The mother of them all, though, is my rapid cycling bipolar depression. I am no stranger to suicidal thoughts, I have welcomed them warmly like a mother to her returning child over the decades. I have never been so near to death's door, however, and made a serious attempt last week.
I have not been able (or I just have not picked myself up by my combat boot straps, or I have not been in the right environment to cope, but I certainly take responsibility for putting myself in this environment) to keep a straight head on the past 8 months or so, and coping had become nearly impossible. Last week it came to a head and I swallowed the bottle of anxiety pills I have a prescription for, and washed it down with wine while waiting to drift off. The thing that saved me was the thought: What if I didn't have enough pills left in the bottle? What if I wake up on my own? What if I am pulled out halfway through? All I could think was that my brain would be mash. I am not sure what the politically correct term is, but I was afraid that I would be mentally retarded. I cherish my ability to argue, to learn, I love knowledge. I was a philosophy major- not for a degree, not for a fuckin' job, but because I enjoy philosophy and my passion in life is the search for truth and knowledge.
I was taken to the ER (I was told this- I do not remember getting in the car, being driven there, any of that. The pills had taken their toll by the time my loved ones had gotten me to get in a vehicle, much to my opposition).
I remember what was either being there immediately or what was waking up after two days of my brain fighting off induced sedation, or perhaps both ends of the spectrum. I remember fighting violently with all of my strength against the nurses and doctors, pulling hair by the roots to keep them away from me, and restraints and needles to sedate me, despite my bloodstream being already full with toxins. I even pissed on them just in a defiantly feeble attempt to keep them away, just for one second.
This video (and much of the language) makes me shake and cry, every time that I watch it. It is 110% an accurate vision of my experience in the ER. I feel like I am watching myself as I fought against the attempts to save my life. A depiction set to appropriate music of the only things I can recall before waking up after a two day slumber:
I woke up at the end of a two day period alone in a dark, cold, sad room with no windows. It had two faded ugly paintings of dune grass and some other indication of a beach scene on the eggshell painted cinder block walls. With no one there- no nurse, assistant, family, I went back to sleep. I awoke and returned to sleep several times before I awoke to a face peering at me through the slim window on the cold, mean door. It was my mother. She got a doctor, and she and my partner were finally allowed to visit me. It is blurry, a warm memory (because of all of the clonazapem) of holding hands, sad eyes, hospital blankets, bandages, and itchy plastic wristbands.
I am not sure how it happened, but by just after 2 that morning I was in an ambulance on my way to an intensive, high-security, highly-monitored mental health institution. By 3, I was at the facility. Groggy, teary, and tired, I then was ushered into my unit (suicide) stripped of my clothes, possessions, and pride, put into the beautiful and wonderfully-fitting green scrubs you may have seen on TV, and then sat down with a doctor (or maybe a psychiatrist? case worker?) to answer questions for what I am pretty sure was an hour. At the end of that hour of answering questions while I was still sedated from various drugs, I was ushered into a room where a small fragile girl with thin hair was sitting up, looking frightened. I felt horrible, and apologized for waking her up, for introducing myself at such a horrendous time under such ugly circumstances. She calmly and moreso boredly (but in a sad way) assured me that it was okay, she was up anyway. I didn't believe her (by the end of my stay, I realized she was not lying.).
I slept well for the first two nights, then didn't sleep at all for the next four, even with the help of various drugs, plus anxiety pills and, to my high reluctance, Ambien (hallucinations, but no sleep. Harumpf).
Despite the ugliness of the beginning of this story (I wonder how many times I have typed that word by now?) I actually had a wonderful time during my stay once I woke up that first morning, and look back on my time there fondly.
I was instantly social (as I usually am), made friends with all of the other people in my unit (16 of us by the end of the week) and spent most of my time belly-laughing. I had tears and a red face more often than not, due to laughter. There was one instance where people were hanging out the doorways of their units to see what the ruckus was, because my two closest friends and I were comparable to hyenas we were being so rambunctious. We joked with staff and called down the halls with tears in our eyes as we keeled over with open smiles and breathy giggles, surely breaking rules with our over-the-edge and too-close-for-comfort jokes. I will be attending outpatient therapy at the very same institution starting this week, which I look forward to. I fought tears when I left.
I roared with laughter. I was constantly surrounded by happiness while in the institution. The problem was not inside the walls of safety, where strict routine and organization ruled, where group therapy was a constant and doctors/nurses/psychiatrists/staff attended to your every wince, where real life was nonexistent. The problem for me is on the outside. Coping is something I must work on, but keeping myself healthy enough to have the energy to keep myself out of situations that can further my depressive state is my truest struggle. I may write a separate blog about my happy times during my stay, because since I left I have not been able to stop talking about the friends I made and the happiness they brought me.
I want to note that while I was lucky enough to be able to be strong and mentally healthy enough for myself during my stay, others were not. It was not a walk in the park. My heart is my unit mates- those also struggling against suicide, bipolar and major depressive disorder, as well as borderline personality disorder, psychosis, schizophrenia, autism, and other horrors. Many were not able to speak, or leave their room, or maintain a grounds in reality. I did my best to be there for everyone, and my door is always open. Though I may not always be strong enough for myself, I will always try to be strong enough for others.
So, there you have it for now I suppose. I just wanted to get that off of my chest and let you all know what had been going on, where I had been. I couldn't stand not to let you know. I have such a beautiful community here and all of your help, before and after this event, have not been for nothing. I love you all, I truly do.
As I said, I haven't gone back to proof this or anything, so my apologies if it is all over the place. My cat also walked on my keyboard at some point, so if there is a long line of "oooooooooooooooooooooosddddddddddddd" or something.. cat.
This blog is open for questions, comments, and conversation engagements. I enjoy sharing my experience and I think it is always and only for the best. Please remember to be respectful if you disagree.
Reaper
