It has occurred to me that I have never shared and openly discussed the day I almost died. I have spoken about the day in parts to various people and parts in detail to some of the ones closest to me that experienced the day with me. The utter horror of the day overwhelms now. I have recently found myself with strong urges to want to die and getting a plan of action ready. I just watched a movie where the main character kills herself at the end of the movie. She commits suicide. The word committed is something that truly describes killing yourself. It seems like once you get the idea in your head and then the plan of how to do it, that the euphoric feeling takes over and you just flow to get the task completed. The day I committed to kill myself was in the morning. Around 9:30am when my then husband was in a work meeting, I had called out to work and called one of my longest friends to wish her a happy birthday. All of that is so day to day life and yet in my head, I had decided to not be apart of the day to day anymore. So, I checked, and I had enough vodka left from a party for 2 drinks. I thought that was perfect because it would be enough for 2 bottles of my medication to take with them.
Some details that I have never shared is that I put my stereo in the hallway outside the primary bedroom. I had my stereo on repeat with the music from the soundtrack, True Romance. You know that beautiful instrumental song by Hans Zimmer, you’re so cool, and the music was from steel drums and mixed synthesizers. And the CD was on repeat. That movie was a favorite movie from my first love and that song was one of my favorites. It took me years and years to be able to play it again but to this day it reminds me of the day I committed to die. Another detail I never shared is that I changed my underwear. I normally do not wear underwear but since I knew EMS workers would be taking me to the hospital, I put clean underwear on. They were this new seamless style and I put the black ones on. I was in the primary bedroom and had my drink on the nightstand and the pills on the perfectly made bed. The Ralph Lauren denim blue comforter. I took so many pills all at once. I always was able to swallow a ton of pills at once. When you must take multiple pills daily it gets so annoying so combining them and swallowing them in one shot helps that annoying chore. After that I had rushed downstairs to get my second vodka drink before I started to pass out. I hurried back upstairs and swallowed more and then the next thing I remember is coming out of blackness and my body thrusting upwards with my feet down and shoulders down so my back made an arc. I was alive. I remember urinating at the same time my body made this arc and the vibe felt chaotic. I remember feeling ashamed of my failed attempt of ending my life and embarrassed I had urinated and then the blackness hit again.
The next thing I remember is being in a comfortable and calming bed and my then husband whispering in my ear they had to cut my shirt off. I remember being angry at him for that being the first thing he thought I would be upset about. It was an aqua ribbed tank I had bought 3 of them at Nordstrom and to this day I still have the royal blue one and each time I wear it for bed, I think of the day I committed to end my life. Some might say to get rid of the things that remind me of that day but for me being reminded is remembering that I would never do that again.
Being completely out of the blackness and in my hospital room, my then husband told me that my mom wanted him to tell me that they were all in a circle on the living room floor holding hands and praying for my life. I think it was my mom, her mom, and her sister and then my 2 sisters. I think that was who was there. It was summer so my sisters would have been home during the day. I have never asked any of them about that time. I remember hearing that and feeling grateful I had family that loved me that much and then ashamed that I made them so worried and then I pushed that feeling down again and moved on to something else. I have this great ability of being able to push feelings down. This is a huge problem with me and is painfully obvious because for the very first time I am sharing all these details just a mere 16-years later. I think it will help though. I think I am still traumatized about that day in so many ways that I do not even know. With the recent suicide that happened at work and then having to take a suicide prevention course, some horrible memories are coming back so maybe writing the whole truth from my suicidal day will help.
I do not remember much after my then husband whispering in my ear, just waiting around for the psychiatrist to come and diagnose me so that I could be committed. I knew in my bones I did not want to be released to home and you could not be until a doctor says so but for me, I knew I couldn’t go back. I didn’t want to. I was not even supposed to be there. While waiting for the doctor my then husband would tell me more about that morning and day. I would stop him when it got to be too much but overall, this is what I had heard.
He came home after his work meeting with Chick-fila and called up to me that he was home but heard the music so went into the living area and ate and turned-on Sports Center. (I assume it was that show as it was always on) After he ate and rested a bit and saw his players he came upstairs and found me on the bed with 2 bottles of pills open and a few pills scattered and white spit coming out of my rigid body. I was completely nonresponsive. I was that close to being dead and getting what I wanted. He called 911 and the paramedics carried me out on a stretcher and to this day I do not know what they did to me, but I visualize them taking me down these steep stairs outside our townhome and my old neighbor watching from her stairs. I had asked him if anyone saw so that is why she is in my memory. It is not even a memory I suppose. It is a picture in my head that my then husband described but I guess out of all the things he was telling me that is what my mind went to, clung to so that the other actions and scenes would not stay. Those were failed actions and I could not deal with that. He said when he was on his way to the hospital, he called his sister and his sister met him at the hospital. He then said when they quickly rolled me in, they gave me charcoal and he had to hold my leg down. When he told me this it connected to me awakening from blackness to chaos and my feet and shoulders down while I struggled, and my back was an arc while I urinated. For a very long time after I thought they had put charcoal over my entire body, but I ingested it, or tried to so the pills would come out. I literally never cared enough to know the details of how they revived me at home enough to rush me to the hospital and what they did to save my life while in the emergency room. I did not care and did not ask. To me, I was only thinking about the fact I was right back where I did not want to be. I also think I stopped asking because picturing my then husband holding my leg down with EMS workers and doctors mortified me. It sickened me. It hurt me. It was the first thing that took me out of my horrific mind and brought another perspective of this morning and day. My then husband held his then wife’s leg down while people were saving her life that she did not want saved.
When the doctor finally came THREE days later, he walked in while my then husband was there, and the TV was on, and I had a face mask on sitting on the bed. He began to evaluate me and concluded that I was okay to be released. I yelled at him. I said how can you say that?! He replied with, you have a face mask on and your husband by your side, you do not seem like you need to be committed. To this day I cannot get over that. I think because it had been 3 days and that is how long a psychiatric hold is he assumed I was okay. For me though, I started crying so hard I could not catch my breathe. I was so angry and so scared and so and so, well I do not know how else to describe me then. I was manic. I was completely unstable and unwell, and wanted to die, and this doctor said I was okay. After me making a scene in front this doctor, he let me check myself in and after they signed me in and showed me my room, I went and asked to leave. I started to see people that seemed way worse than I was, and I thought I was not that bad. Thankfully, I had to stay for 72 hours. So, I signed something saying at 72 hours I could leave. What the doctors discovered is that I was unstable and unwell but had the support and strength to go home and commit to taking an outpatient therapy course. It was M-F 9am-3pm for 8-12 weeks. It was called Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) and it was new to me. That is what truly saved my life. When my then husband picked me up after the 72-hour hold he did not say one word to me the entire ride. We pulled in the garage, and he grabbed my bag and followed me up the stairs to the bedroom. I turned around to talk to him and he immediately pulled me close to him and started to take my clothes off while kissing me all over. He wanted to have sex. I was laughing and saying I guess you missed me, and he still said nothing. And we didn’t have sex. My then husband communicated with me by making love to me like he never had before and never would after. Every touch and kiss were him showing me how incredibility scared he was, how hurt he was and how he almost lost me forever. Every single touch and movement were showing me how much he loved me and did not know how to verbally express this. It was the most passionate moment that has every happened to me and when we were done, he still did not speak but he cried and walked away just like that. 16-years later that moment was so powerful and because I was unwell, I was never able to communicate to him how sorry I was in the way he communicated how scared he was. Not that I needed a passionate night, but I needed to be well and to properly understand what happened to me so I could communicate this to him. Let’s just say the unwell took a long time to be well and by the time I was, our relationship had run it’s course. You know my Mom was not able to take off work right away when I failed to kill myself so she sent my older, younger sister. I was at the CBT course most of the time and I finally realized my Mom sent my sister for my then husband, not me. It’s amazing how smart Moms are and it is a blessing when a sister jumps in without question to help.
Here I am struggling with these same demons and with many more years of knowledge of what went down that day. What happened to my friends and family during that time? I had 2 close friends from childhood that were like family, and I think my mom called each of them, and I remember them telling me where they were when they found out. One was with her now husband about to watch his medical school graduation ceremony. The other was on a girl’s trip with her college friends. Both were in the middle of life. My 2 younger sisters were watching how scared these adults were while in a circle on the living room floor. I made so many people so scared they were going to lose me. Because of this knowledge I have vowed to never kill myself. For many various ups and downs in the past 16 years and even new diagnosis of ADHD and PTSD, I sometimes get pissed that because of them (family and friends) I cannot take my own life. How weird is that?! I mean literally annoyed. In these 16 years I have been so depressed and since I could not kill myself, I decided to eat myself to death. I though heart disease runs in my family so if I eat a ton of processed food and sugars and gain all this weight that maybe my heart would just give out and I would be done with it all finally. In the past 16 years I have bought so many things I thought would make me feel better. I have made multiple bad decisions, sometimes knowingly and that was the rush I needed and sometimes not and that was the illness running the show. I am not happy on earth. I just do not know how to do life and I am unhappy.
I decided to write this out because I thought somehow it would help me move on. I have buried so much, and I thought owning these details that I do not like to think of would help. It did not though. I thought some of my actions and behaviors now are part of a PTSD thing but to tell you the truth, I just live with demons in me. I always have and I always will. Since I was a kid, I knew I was different, and some people can put up with me and others throw me away or think I am a bitch. I do not have much to show in my 16 years of having my life saved. I think some of the PTSD is simply the shame of failing at killing myself. I suppose this was also written to help someone. Maybe. I stopped doing cognitive behavioral therapy when my therapist was listening to me and stated she thinks Dialectical Behavioral therapy would be better. This was about a year and a half ago. When I started Dialectical Behavioral therapy (DBT) I did so in a group setting M-Thursday 2 hours each late afternoon. I have the books and workbooks still and do my best to practice the skills. I do recommend DBT, highly recommend it actually. Just recently I bought a few Bipolar 2 books and gave them to my parents and friends to read. I started hearing them say, “I saw it coming” and I was like, WHAT?! They did not feel safe talking to me about seeing a manic/hypomanic episode in me because of how I would react. I would react aggressively I suppose. Like yelling that this isn’t the time or something like that. I am going to be 44 though, I have figured out some emotion regulation and although for a few minutes I may act like a brat, I would see reason and talk to them. How fucked up is it that I blame them now too? I am strong and I do my best, but it is never enough and the longer I live the smaller my support group gets. I am left with myself and bitterness for not being able to kill myself.
I start therapy in 2-weeks after not having it for insurance reasons for 5-months. I have been medicated this entire time though. Everyone has their beliefs with meds and therapy, and it is my humbled opinion that having a mental illness is so hard at the beginning, but you will only work the mental illness best with meds and therapy. I believe that to my core and it does truly pain me when I read so many people on social media that are struggling with the right dosage or doctors, and I just want to be an advocate for them all! It seems that other people’s lives are more valuable than mine. How’s that for ironic. Well after all of this I am posting on the night before I committed to kill myself 16-years ago. I have not one memory of the night before, not one. So, the morning of August 2, 2006, is when I was inspired to finally do it. If you read, Layer One, My First Diagnosis, you will see a quote that lives with me daily in my bedroom from that incident and I speak of a photo as well. It is a gorgeous photo of the sunrise. I was given that picture by a woman that was in my life saving CBT course that I was in after my failed attempt to die. She was showing some other people these photos and I have always been a sunrise gal so when she had them, I took it and looked closely. It was taken on August 2, 2006 5am-ish. She ended up giving me this photo which is framed along with the quote in my bedroom. That was what the sunrise looked like the day I decided to die. Just as gorgeous as any other day. I keep it in my bedroom to remind me that if the sun rises, I shall rise on this earth. What I am still stuck with is figuring out how to live each day without wanting to die.
Layers 