I haven’t written about my suicide attempt that much or discussed it before to the extent that I perhaps should have. Just to say, it had nothing to do with the people around me. And everything seemed to be fine. But it had to do a lot with what I had been secretly hiding inside of myself. A ferocious beast that was gnawing on my insides, a depression that I could no longer run from. This post is going to be about my overdose and is quite graphic. I don’t want to trigger anyone… So please read it if you are mentally strong enough.
Am truly lucky to have survived and I have my loved ones to thank for that.
My Life Before My Suicide Attempt
I have always had trouble with depression. For as long as I can remember – I don’t even really know life without it. Or the mania that keeps me awake and has given me the ability to over-perform at many tasks to the point of exhaustion.
Ever since I accepted my diagnosis of bipolar disorder with mixed episodes. I have gained a new set of eyes on my own life. Reflecting on what has been going on inside of my head. Or life in general. After all, I spend most of my life with myself and my thoughts. It is hard to be your friend when you are locked in 24/7. Has a lot to do with acceptance, I wouldn’t say that I love myself though.
Where Did it Come From
I believe that nobody has a fault in my condition, it was a mixture of genetics and a life that I had been exposed to. Mostly my inability to ask for help when I needed it. Or the fact that I feel everything very deeply. It is ironic… as sometimes I feel like there is no barrier between me and the world but I can also be very numb. And I tolerate stress very well but always seem to crash after prolonged exposure.
Up until I came out of the hospital, I never really spoke about my troubles. Not that I didn’t trust, I just did not want to burden anyone. I still don’t. But I can say now that I am a teacup, and a cup can only hold so much. As human beings, it is vital to talk to others. I wish that I had accepted sooner that was not meant to carry the boulders on my chest as a secret.
Even when I was relentlessly beaten and spat on in school I kept it all inside of myself, it festered there for years before I dared to talk about it. I have always been a loner and felt awkward around people. Maybe this is why I also started writing. To me it is the process of bleeding out words and then carefully stitching myself back together. Writing is my Magick.
My Life and My Frustration With It
I can feel the rage in me that burns my insides even to this day.
When I was young I knew what I wanted to be: a writer, a musician, a painter, a woman in love with the world perhaps. But the last part I know now, will never be. And somewhere in the course of my life… I lost my sight. There were many different jobs – just so that I could pay the bills, a car painter, a baker, a comanager. It felt as if I was slowly killing my own soul while doing these jobs.
The sad part is that I still feel the same way about work but now I have learned to say no. I don’t have to be the one going to work when someone doesn’t show up. Back then it was just loading workhours into my month. Often not sleeping due to my mental illness. I ended up working eight days in a row with days in them with 0 sleep. Often 15 – 16 hours a day. To me, it was an adult thing to do.
“Poetry is stupid, and I am too old to get anywhere in music”.
My days consisted of cursing the alarm clock and dragging my sorry ass to work with little to no sleep; over-performing at work, coming home to drink wine, and cry under the covers. I had lost all of my will to write or to sing. Even drawing seemed to be too big of a process. My psyche was just too tired and exhausted and I was hiding the gaping hole inside of my chest. I wanted to be normal.
Before that or even now… I always had writing or music to return to. But I was too tired to do what I loved even as a hobby.
I felt alone and miserable
I never felt that I fit in. It was as if no matter how hard I tried to be a normal functioning adult, I still felt out of place. And I wasn’t alone, I was already in a relationship. My sis and ma were always there for me too. Three people, who blamed themselves the most. I am truly sorry for the torment I caused.
So, after quitting the job and finding a new one. Suddenly I had day-offs. Alone at home, I was left to deal with the aftermath of my actions. Not being present in my own life, running on autopilot, and depleting myself of things that made me me.
I was running away from myself for so long that it all caught up. And I was even more miserable, I felt I wasted my life doing things that had little meaning to me just to fit in and be normal. As if I had held a gun to my own face and killed off the child in me that only ever wanted to be free in art – chained myself to a belief that to be successful I had to fit in and hide the mad.
Whatever you do, don’t show your wild, and your bonkers, and your creative.
I Was Self-Destructive
I hated myself and the choices I had made so much that I wanted to rip all that I cared about apart. Just to hurt me even more. Started drinking again and occasionally popping pain medication to get high. Something I was proudly free of for five years. I deleted my poetry blogs and threw away my old drawings and all the photos I had of my life up until that point. Then I stopped talking to people and almost broke up with the man that, for some reason, loves me. It all happened in the course of a few months. I became a hermit again, built walls around me, and not even those closest to me couldn’t see it coming.
The Trial of a Suicide
With tears streaming down my face and me being alone with all my demons in the room with me. I became my own worst enemy and bully. Relapsed into the same addictions that I went through thick and thin to get rid of.
I cried to the point of becoming numb and there were no thoughts or tears in me left. Drinking since the morning in a frenzy I emptied all of my antipsychotics into my mouth and downed it with beer. As I laid myself to sleep I remember thinking that I need to pee and that I don’t want to be found in my own pee.
After that, it is a blackness.
I Was Found
On that day my mother for some reason tried to reach me. I didn’t answer my phone and she knew that something was wrong. My boyfriend had a feeling too, he came home 2 hours earlier. When he opened the door, I was lying unconscious between the mattress and the toilet. I can’t remember if I even made it to the toilet. He called my mother saying that I was breathing funny, it was the gurgling noise. My mother screamed at him to call the ambulance.
The moment I was lifted into the car my heart stopped and the ambulance yelled at my boyfriend that he can not come with me, he is not family since he is not my husband.
Call it a Dream
As science says that when we die our brain still keeps working, I heard the doctors and my boyfriend, unable to talk back. Standing next to myself I felt the pain in my heart as they were working hard to bring me back.
In the hospital, while they tried to put me under the breathing apparatus I opened my eyes and tried to fight them off of me. I scratched a few nurses pretty bad, I am sorry. They ended up putting me back to sleep (induced coma) and tying me to the bed as I woke up several times before succumbing to the darkness.
the Hardest Part
When I woke up, I woke up several times, opening my eyes and falling back to sleep. The nurse that bathed me with a rag kept talking to me in a very motherlike way. “Your mother is coming, your boyfriend was here yesterday.” and “Your boyfriend is coming, let’s get you clean.” also “Let’s untie you.”.
The pain hit me when I opened my eyes and my whole family including my boyfriend were beside my bed. To this day they did not know if I will wake up, doctors said that my organs might not come out of it. I can not even put into words the quilt that overwhelmed me when I realized where and why I was. The moment I did that I was not thinking, I was on the outside looking in. Now I was face to face with the aftermath of my actions.
The Aftermath of My Actions
My first words were “Where is food?” then I saw my family and muttered, “I am sorry.”
The fact that I lost my job with my then boss telling me that people like me are not needed around there. Did not hurt as much as the realization of the pain I caused those that cared for me. Even now, five years later, I can feel the rush of guilt. If I had succeeded… the guilt would be in their hearts. As someone who has dealt with a loss of a loved one through suicide, I never thought that I would do something like this to those around me.
I wish I could erase the memory and fear from their minds and tell them it was not their fault. And there is nothing they could have done differently… I am very grateful for all the support and love, and I never meant to hurt them.
I have vowed to be myself now, no matter how wild and how imperfect. I am human, darkness and light coexist inside of me and it is ok. As human beings, we are imperfect and still deserving of love. No one should hide their darkness because of fear of rejection. Or do something just because society told them to/ the beliefs that were branded into their skull.
I am free when I write.
To this day I feel like quitting my job and selling poetry on the curbs.