What happened (warning ** This isn't easy to read**):
I made the decision to die. I had, in all honesty, made it before that night and maybe even before that week. Despite not believing in much if any afterlife, death hasn't really scared me. I was waiting until I had time alone and until I felt the bottom. Sort of like when you jump in the deep end for the first time. You trust fully that your feet will eventually hit the bottom, so you close your eyes and wait during the descent. When I found that bottom or what I had decided was sufficietly low enough, I went home and cleaned up the house bit. I put the groceries away, fed the animals and began writing a letter. Oddly, didn't think of it as a suicide note until very close to the end of the page. It probably would've been different, had I thought of it that way. I had just become accustomed to writing out my thoughts when my voice failed me for one of many reasons. I started taking pills. Then stopped for while to shower and cut myself. I took apart a pencil sharpener for the blades, a usefull/less skill I learned in highschool. I was feeling pretty desperate though, so I used pliers instead of taking the time to find a screw driver. I came back to the bed after the shower and cut myself even more. I was terrified and amazed and sickened by the amount of anger and damage I was unleashing upon myself. I can't actually get rid of that short video in my head. It strikes without warning and is responsible for seemingly random tears and nausea.
After sort of cleaning myself and the surrounding areas, I decided that I wasn’t feeling the effects of the pills I had taken so I grabbed the rest. Literally everything I could find, except oz’s meds and some vitamins. A slight panic had started somewhere in my head, but to squash it, I swallowed faster. I remembered that the last time I was taken to the hospital for an overdose the first thing the doctor had said to me was “thank god you didn’t take advil”. So I made sure I did, along with several boxes of several forms of cold medicine all containing acetaminophen. And then, as far as I can remember I laid down to go to sleep like any night that I was sleeping alone. Oz came in, to change, I think or grab a jacket and I spoke, and slurred my words. And he knew something wasn’t right. From that point on things get hazy as far as details and timelines until sometime in the ICU Sunday evening. There was a lot of charcoal and vomiting. Lots of IVs and nurses. I overheard some awful comments about how they shouldn’t even bother to clean the cuts since I obviously wanted them or how pointless it was to help someone who was a “repeat offender”. In the next few hours I started to hate myself for giving in and going to the hospital, for quitting and for not ripping the IVs out and for taking the charcoal. I regretted that Oscar had to find me like that. To come home to that. And thought of all sorts of other ways things could’ve happened that could’ve been easier on him, from my perspective at least. The thing I find strange is that one, maybe 2 people have asked “why?”. Maybe it’s obvious. Maybe no one thinks it’s any of their business. Maybe they’re like some of the people I’ve talked to and they feel like it’s not a very important detail. I had reached a point where I was damn tired of struggling through everyday just to function. Tired of feeling like everything I did was wrong and everything I touched would fail. Like things would never change and never better. Tired of feeling useless and unable to help anyone around me. Tired of feeling like the things that I wanted to accomplish were pointless and would never happen. Hopeless, fat, useless, and like the only thing I could do was cause pain to those around me. Unfortunately I can’t say those beliefs are gone given the turmoil that I still feel exists because of me. Yes it was and is extremely selfish. But I’ve discovered more and more lately that that word describes me fairly accurately. So, inpatient time led to new diagnoses and new labels and new things that are harder to wrap my head around. I’m having a very hard time feeling like in a matter of weeks I have gone from being capable of dealing with just depression and anxiety to being overwhelmed by very simple day to day tasks. How is it that with a supposedly corrected diagnosis, meds, and a different type of therapy I’m missing more work, failing to repair relationships, and have hurt myself and nearly everyone around me even more than before?
It’s hard to keep my head up, to be honest.