alltheavenueslookugly

(this was the most recent suicide attempt. it happened in 2004.)

i was just fucked. i felt fucked. i had been for months. i had been living alone, and i loved it (apartment was small, cozy, nudity comfortable, etc.) i had been off the booze for the most part, taking my meds as i should, and my job was awesome.

see, the scary thing about day to day for me (even now) is the idea that one day my brain might just decide that it has had too much. when this happens, i don’t see it coming. i have become accustomed to feeling this doom every day of my life–though sometimes it goes up or down a few degrees. but when i have attempted suicide, it’s been without warning. my brain makes a decision, and no matter how much of a fight i try to put up, it’s just going to happen.

i don’t remember what i did that day–but i do recall that i didn’t have a plan. i hadn’t spent the day thinking of the last outfit i would wear, what music would be playing, whether or not i would remember to erase my embarrassing internet browsing history, or what kind of food they would find inside me when they did the autopsy (i hear they can tell sometimes, weird.) that just wasn’t my style.

i remember i had just gotten my medicines filled earlier that afternoon. pretty sure it was the effexor (150 mg tabs) and depakote, maybe some ambien and possibly some other anti-psychotic that made sure the voices weren’t screaming too loud. but they were full. i remember there were 90 pills in that effexor bottle.

and i started drinking. i was listening to music, but don’t remember what. i’m sure it was sad though. my television might have been on. it might have been The Daily Show. it was a week night. and my brain just gave up.

i started eating my pills. handfuls at a time. washing them down with alcohol. i remember how dry they tasted and i remember gagging on them. even now those plastic capsules make me cringe. i remember writing a note. i might still have it somewhere. i’ll let you know. just to be clear, it wasn’t the alcohol that put me into a position where i dropped my guard just enough to fancy the idea of killing myself. it was more of a ‘just help me make sure i do this right’ assistant-friend.

at some point in this madness i called my therapist (which i don’t remember doing at all), who called a good friend of mine, who got into my apartment. i think after passing out i must have vomited some of the pills up. i think they found me with my head in the toilet, with pills stuck to my lips and shirt. at some point after that i remember being in a wheelchair for a minute (after he drove me to the emergency room.) and i’ll never ever forget the disgusting, chalky, shit-tar taste of the charcoal that they pumped into my stomach (it never tastes good, even when you’ve had it a few times.) i remember sitting up, leaning over the stretcher i was on, and puking it up all over the floor. i think i even remember feeling slightly bad for the poor person who was going to have to mop up the lake of bullshit i had just left on the ground.

and when i finally woke up it was in the emergency room of the hospital i worked at. and this was the second try in almost two years.

a failed suicide attempt is miserable and slightly humiliating. even more so when you have to open your eyes and watch the line of people that you work with on a daily basis pass by you and you can see that they were trying not to stare. some of them would sit down beside me and hold my hand. they all looked sad. they had no clue. i wanted to cry. i hadn’t wanted to fail. i was also wearing a hospital gown and had a catheter shoved in my pee-hole –which meant at some point some of these good people had been forced to see me naked and one or two of them had to touch my dick. that shame was overshadowed by the pity i felt for those that had to deal with me.

what they didn’t seem to understand was that i didn’t want to be there. i wanted to be fucking dead. jesus christ. i didn’t want to be told how lucky i was. seriously.

i spent some time in intensive care before they sent me off to the mental hospital. at that point, after so many hospitalizations, it was nothing new. when you go inside, you talk about how fucked everything is, how you wish you were no longer here, and how fucking stupid the whole situation had become. you do that until you realize that the longer you say that, the longer they are going to keep you locked up. so then you start lying.

and you lie to yourself until the next time you find yourself waking up in a cold, bright room with people crying because they can’t understand what the fuck is wrong with you.

~ by alltheavenueslookugly on 2011/10/05.

Posted in posts about suicide