me and a suicide attempt (01)

(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.

8 Responses to “me and a suicide attempt (01)”

  1. That’s pretty intense stuff.

    I don’t think I’ve ever really attempted to commit suicide even though I’ve taken several pills a couple of times knowing that they were strong sleeping pills and it could have serious adverse side affects on me. And like with you, self-harming like cutting, I never cut my wrists or anything, just above my elbows and on my thighs.

    Glad you have made it through such terrible times.

    Looking forward to reading how you are doing now.

    All the best,

    The Quiet Borderline

  2. Thank you for reading and for the comment.

    Each day continues to be a struggle, but I just do what I can. Writing this blog has helped a little bit, just by having the chance to be honest about what I am going through.

    Hope things are going okay for you as well.

    • I am glad that this blog provides you with some relief.

      I am doing reasonably ok thank you. The best in the last 3 months.

      We’ll get there 😉 just takes time, patience and energy.

      All the best,

      The Quiet Borderline

  3. I remember this vividly. The ride from home to you was the longest I’ve ever traveled. It just so happens, I had just bought a Journal and this was the topic of my first entry. I’ll have to share it with you sometime (if you want). Love ya, bro!

  4. Very, VERY intense.
    May I ask you Sean… what do you think will happen if you die??
    I think of sleep… just rest. Sometimes I think of an afterlife… but usually just being at rest, ya know?? I do not believe in a torturous place like hell. God, if you believe, would not be so cruel… only humans are.
    I hope you find peace, not in an early death, but while walking in life. 🙂

    • to be honest, i don’t really know. i think it is just black, dark, and you don’t really think of anything. i guess it is pretty similar to your view.

      i don’t believe in god, but i agree that if there were one, i can’t imagine that he/she would overlook all the good you tried to do in your life and send you to hell – especially when he/she would completely understand why you did such a thing to yourself, and know that it was a last resort because you were in so much pain.

      thank you. i want that peace so badly. i just hope i can find it here somewhere.

  5. “a failed suicide attempt is miserable and slightly humiliating.”
    Exactly. When I slit my throat (rather badly, I must say), the walk through school was just one of the worst things I’ve ever experienced. I can sort of laugh in a really messed up way about how someone might ask me where I got the cuts on my neck, and I’d tell them the truth, and they’d just stop talking to me and walk off, now that I look back on the situation.

    I love how you express things so clearly and accurately – I’m definitely bookmarking this blog!

    • it’s a completely crazy mix of emotions that you are trying to understand within yourself…and then to have random strangers and/or friends come at you with what seems to you to be the most insensitive or ridiculous questions or assumptions only makes things worse.
      so yeah, just telling them the truth is a good way at getting people who don’t really care to leave really fast. it shows you who really cares and who really just needs to mind their own damn business. 🙂

      take care.

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