There’s a gap in the timeline of my blog … figuratively, and literally. My full recollection of Oct 19th is very dim, and that fact haunts me. I knew I would eventually talk about that day, but I didn’t know when…until today. Something awful happened, but I can’t go into detail about it, as it’s not my story to tell. But I can say that what it is, is an agonizing reminder that openness and honesty about this terrible disease is still so crucial. So with that in mind, here is my story of my third overdose.
You would think that my balloon-lifting, light-footed feeling of freedom after opening up about my illnesses and experiences would make any blog easy to write. Wrong. The events that occurred on Oct 19th still embarrass me. They still make my body close in on itself with guilt. I’ve sort of (at the risk of sounding truly selfish) ignored a lot of the emotion I’ve had about that day, because generally speaking I feel ashamed. It’s bad enough for my mind to process the fact that I overdosed the first time. Wound so tightly with anxiety, trying to quiet the deafening noise of chaos in my head at the time, I made that first horrible choice. But then a year later a second overdose occurs; unacceptable! That time while saturated in wine, grief and anger with the evil in this world, my actions were even too much for me to believe. I should have known better, right? But then, while still recovering from the ‘second time’…thinking that the progress I was making would surely spare me and my family from the hell of another experience…it happens again 🙁 . And much differently from all the other times. This time I had no vice like alcohol to blame. I didn’t even feel it coming. It was a day like any other day, until something snapped and my world went dark faster than it ever had before.
I woke up and walked Walter like any other morning, then drove Caroline to work. Easy enough. I had felt ‘off’ the few days before, but still felt in control of my thoughts and actions and just thought I was in a bit of a rut. Normal enough. I got home and was alone, so I decided to go back to bed for a bit. Maybe that would take the edge off. Reasonable enough. I had my phone back then, so while lying in bed I checked Facebook and scrolled to see some pictures. Innocent enough. But along came some pictures I wasn’t expecting to see. They were of Octoberfest. There was Ian having fun with all of my co-workers, drinking and laughing…without me. Suddenly my ‘off’ feeling PLUMMETED to my level 4 of depression! Just like THAT! No warning. No alcohol. No drugs. Just raw pain. I put my phone down and tried to gather myself with ‘reason’. But nothing worked…I felt like an alien on this planet, disgusted with myself, numb and cold. Who am I? How did I get to this shameful place in my life? How did I ruin everything? My distorted thinking soared off the charts! I can’t drink or have fun! I can’t hang out with my friends and laugh like them! Everything about my life has changed! I’m putting my kids through hell! What kind of a mother am I? And I’ve lost Ian! This disease has ripped away the person I have loved with all of my heart and I miss him every second of the day so much! My heart hurts so much! Everything hurts SO MUCH!
Suddenly I was just the ‘girl with the mental health history’. My blog didn’t make me feel better in that moment…it made me feel gross and uncomfortable. The rapid switch in my thinking made me forget every positive thing that had happened to me as a result of opening up…all I wanted to do was hide, from me, and from everyone. I was suddenly reminded that my life and my brain were so far from normal. Nothing could change that. I just wasted oxygen.
Talking about this next part is very hard for me….OK… Calm as anything I went downstairs. I let Walter outside to pee, got a dining room chair, and searched deep in the back of my kitchen cupboard for the best sleeping pills I could find. But it wasn’t so that I could just have a good nap, I with 100% certainty wanted to go to sleep forever.
I called Walter inside with the bottle of Flexeril I had found in my hand. I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t anxious. I was numb. Completely numb. I needed to make sure that Walter was safe, then I went upstairs and swallowed 30 pills. I curled up in my bed. I couldn’t hear a sound in my head. I felt with all certainty from my calmness that this was the right thing to do. No more pain. No more roller coasters for my family. They would be better off. AB would take care of Caroline. Jon would take care of Adam. In that moment I’m almost positive I looked through the window of hell, and believed whole heartedly, that I needed to die.
The pills started to work as I began to feel drowsy and a bit sick to my stomach. I remember walking into the bathroom, and laying on the floor because I was so tired. I was positive it was just a matter of time… no more heart-wrenching pain… and I believed it was the best thing for everyone. In that state I truly believed I was doing the world a favour; the evil-tricks my mind could play convinced me without a doubt. It’s SO SCARY to be so certain of something so wrong! And it breaks my heart for EVERYONE who has believed that as I did. That darkness shouldn’t exist! I know that they are in heaven now, but NO ONE should ever see hell.
That’s to where I remember. But I feel the rest of the story is still important to tell, so AB will be picking up where I left off very soon.