march 28, 2016

I was sitting on the kitchen floor, sobbing, a knife in my hand, my phone in the other, willing myself to inflict the pain but finding my hands incapable of pressing the sharp hard metal down hard enough to break skin. I stared at my phone, and the three letters that were stabbing me in my soul:

lol

Those three letters had effectively ended that fight without a resolution. I could feel the person that I had invested my entire livelihood into, the only person I found happiness with, slipping away from me. I could tell that he wasn’t interested, that he didn’t want to hang out, and that I was becoming a nuisance. I was acutely aware that I had become this crazy person that wasn’t me; that something was very wrong. I had asked for help several times, but the help I was getting wasn’t enough. When I complained that I needed more, I was told that there was nothing else that anyone could do for me, I had to just try to get better, and I wasn’t trying hard enough.

Still sitting on the kitchen floor, holding the knife in my hand, and hoping to find the strength to do something that would finally bring attention to the pain that I was feeling, I looked up onto the counter and saw the pills.

They were narcotics, pain-killers for my little brother’s surgery, and I walked over to the counter and took the bottle in my hand. Shaking, I googled the medication’s name, and found out what I could about the pill. Could people overdose on it? How much would it take? How many pills would it take for me to require medical attention, but not cause permanent damage? I saw that liver damage was a possibility, and quickly thought of other medications that we had in the house. But what was I going to do, take a whole bottle of tums so I really wasn’t having a stomach ache? Down all of my lactaid so I could eat all the dairy I wanted for the rest of my life? I took the pills out of the bottle and counted them. 30. I separated them into piles of ten. I got up, filled a glass with water, and sat back down, staring at the three piles that I had conjured.

I looked at my phone. I had texted my friend that I needed help, but her responses were spotty at best–she of course is in college, 3 hours ahead of me, and cannot be at my constant beck and call. I had told my boyfriend that I was worthless, apologized for ever coming into his life, apologized for ruining it, and received no reply. I didn’t have anyone else I felt like could calm me down, and felt like my own attempts to help myself were useless: I was a broken person.

I downed the first pile of 10 all at once, tears streaming down my face, shaking, as I told myself over and over again,

Nobody cares. Nobody listens. Nobody helps. Nobody wants me. Nobody loves me.

Being the perfectionist that I am, I looked at the remaining two piles and, on a whim, wanting to make sure I had gotten the job done, I finished off the rest of the 30 pain killers in two, self loathing gulps.

I sat there for a minute or two, processing the irreversible decision that I had just made. I was shaking, tears streaming down my face uncontrollably. Holding my legs in a fetal position, rocking back and forth, trying to get rid of the tight pain in my chest that I knew was caused by anxiety. I picked up my phone, and called my best friend, the one that was all the way across the country. I told her she was going to hate me, that I was sorry, and then told her what I did.

I don’t remember how she reacted, but I remember not hearing any weakness in her voice. She firmly told me to call 911, and I sobbed to her that I couldn’t, didn’t have the strength, and that I was afraid to. Her voice unwavering, she fiercely repeated to me that I needed to call 911 now, that it was going to be okay, and that if I didn’t do it she would do it herself. I picked up the home phone, and dialed. I went through so many operators, and had to repeat what I had done to several different people. When asked why I did this, I always gave the same, tearful response,

I’m just having a really hard time

I stayed on both phone lines, with both the operator and my best friend, one phone held up to each ear. When the operator told me that I needed to unlock the front door to allow emergency personnel to gain entrance, I numbly walked to the front door, opened it, and then sat back down on the kitchen chair. I was curled up into a ball, unable to feel anything at all, unable to stop crying, and starting to get drowsy.

A police officer announced himself, and had me sit on an isolated chair, made me place both phones away from me on the dining room table, and check to see if I had any weapons. I was crying, and he asked me the same question.

Why did you do it?

I gave my same, vague answer, because in reality, I didn’t know the answer myself. Why did I do it? Part of me felt it was because my pain was invalidated. Whenever I said that I wasn’t suicidal, it felt like it was regarded that my pain wasn’t enough. If I wasn’t hurting enough to want to take my own life, clearly it wasn’t that much of a problem! Did I actually want to die? I don’t think so, but at the same time, I didn’t want to keep living either. Waking up every day and being me was the most painful, excruciating experience, and it got a little bit worse every single day. I saw no end to my pain and suffering, no way out.

The fire department arrived, had me drink charcoal, gave me an IV, and I started to get very, very drowsy. Half awake, they guided me to the gurney, and I was rolled away from my house, from my old life, one that I would never return to.