When Life Goes Wrong

Going backwards to move forward

At first I thought it was totally rediculous to tell a total stranger about the most intimate events of my life. It's not that I'm afraid to talk about them, it's that I don't like the feeling of betrayal I feel after talking.

For the last few years - 15 or 16 to be more precise-I have found a way to live as if the pasat never existed. I was growing up. Then for some reason I hit a wall. I'm still not convinced that the wall was years of repressed feelings of abuse from twenty years ago or more. But what ever the reason I still ended up in a locked psych hospital, scared out of my mind and wanting to die at the same time. It's really weird. I was afraid of all of the "nutty" people there. Some where a little on the aggressive side and some seemed so normal that they had to be planted for some research group or another.

How did this start? I had training on September 9th, 2004. It was a one day motivational seminar. I barely remember what the man was talking about. He gave us some handouts and all I remember is thinking everytime he said you had to take a chance and just do it, I thought he was talking to me. Just do it. Get it over with. And I started thinking about Tommy. He died when I was 15. He was the best and worst thing to ever happen to me. My father hated him right off the bat. But he was the first and only boy who cared about me for me. He was perfect in my eyes. His birthday was coming up. He would be 32 on September 30th of 2004. I kept daydreaming about being able to see him again if I could manage to kill myself on that day. The plan couldn't just be an attempt. It had to be carried through. I had saved up a bunch of pills over the last couple of years. Mostly pain medicine that doctors give you just to get you out of the office I think. Well as dumb as this may seem, the reason I didn't take any of this stuff is because I was afraid of becoming addicted. I'm not afraid to die, but the thought of becoming addicted scares the crap out of me.

So that was the beginning of my plan. But it wasn't complete. I wasn't sure how potent any of the medicines would be. I've been there before. A stomach full of medicines that make you puke and an ambulance ride where they start trying to make you take some nasty stuff to keep you puking. Lots of fun. I was 11 the first time I tried to kill myself with pills. I didn't know what to take so I got a tupperware bowl and filled it with every prescription and nonprescription drug in the house. We always had a lot of that kind of stuff around. At lunch I just went to the bathroom and took them all. I was stupid and I said goodbye to a friend who I thought would understand and she didn't. Somewhere along the line she told a teacher or something and I was summomed to the office where I was met by a school counselor and a couple of EMT's. Strangely, I didn't feel a thing. Who knows maybe everything I took counteracted each other. They asked me if I took a bunch of pills and I said NO! Apparently the medication did something, because they said I was very verbally agressive and defiant and that just wasn't me. (so they say anyway). They always knew me as a shy little girl who couldn't say a word to anyone, let alone yell and throw tantrums. Inside I was always very bold. I always imagined cussing and yelling at people. Anyway, they were going to pump my stomach when I got to he hospital, but they got that nasty crap down me and I puked and puked. Then they were nice enough to give me this gigantic foam cup of watered down charcoal to drink. Right - I was going to drink charcoal. Sorry, but nothing I took effected me enough to make want to drink charcoal. I don't even think I felt bad except for the puking. It's been almost twenty years, so I really don't remember how I felt. I do remember finally agreeing to drink the charcoal after the doctor brought this giant plastic bag and put it my face and said I can't believe you took all of this. Blah, Blah, Blah.... Then they proceded to strap me to the bed. Then I was scared. I would have drank anything they gave me at that point. It's funny how you can want to die and then suddenly be afraid that someones going to do something horrible to you and you just want to survive it. Needless to say, I survived. Went into an "adult" psych ward (they didn't have anything for teens. My dad was in the military and we were overseas, so I had to go to the hospital on base). There some really nice people there. I said the right things and I was out of there in few days. You know, the "oh, no I didn't really want to die I just wanted to see what would happen. I would never want to die. Blah, Blah, Blah". So they gave my mom a bottle of brown pills to "help with the depression" and of course I never took them. Even when I was at the hospital. If you seem meek and compliant enough they don't ever really check. That was my first lesson of surviving the looney bin. When I got home, my mom didn't care if took it or not. I promised it would never happen again and my parents didn't like the idea of meds anyway. I have to admit, as an adult I don't like the idea either. I've always had a visiion of being mentally just nuts if you had to take meds and that people who took meds were "doped" up and not themselves anymore. They were like "stepford nutcases". I can't be out of control. I'm so afraid of not being able to react in a second. So anyway no meds for me, and I trudged through life as usual.

What was I talking about anyway? I think I got off track. Lets see... I had to scroll up. Yeah I started to talk about what happened this time. Well there were other attempts and thoughts between 11 and about 20 but I think this last episode has been the worst. Of course there's only three months of garbage for me to wade through instead of tweny years. So who knows.

Anyway my plan was to kill myself on Tommy's Birthday. I really missed him. He was my first kiss, and didn't care that I was plain, and chubby, and didn't have much of a personality. He liked me anyway. Most people would say that he was paying attention to be soley for the opportunity to have sex with me. But that wasn't true. He never asked or tried to make any moves. It was just the one kiss.

Well I already knew that the pill thing may not work, although I think I had better stuff on had this time. (When I was 11 and the doctor showed me all of the stuff I puked up, I still remember whole pills floating in nasty yellow stuff. So I don't guess I digested any of the stuff. I should have crushed it up. A little more time and I think the outcome would have been different)

So knowing that I didn't want to fail, I had a plan. We got the pills, but then I was going to steal a knife from my husbands drawer. He had some really sharp heavy duty knives. I know from years of experience cutting on myself that a little cut wasn't going to kill be. But my plan was in parts. And this would only be a part. The third part had to do with the lake and rocks in my pockets. So I would take the pills, stab myself as hard as I could in the arm (anywhere, just so I bled a lot). Hopefully I would be able to go pretty far through and have the strength to pull the knife out in order to bleed pretty well. Then I'd jump into a deep part of the lake with the rocks in my pockets. There wouldn't be a mess to clean up. I'd be somewhere in the lake, probably eaten by fish or something and my family wouldn't have to see me dead. I would just leave a note saying I was tired of the regular life and I was leaving. That would be it. I was toying with different letters. I couldn't decide what I wanted to say.

After the "just do it" seminar, I felt extremely weird and depressed and anxious all at the same time. I apparently started to worry my husband when I got home, because he got mad and worried. I think he may have cried. And he took me to the emergency room. I don't remember what I said or did to get him feeling like he needed to take me somewhere. I know I was just so depressed. And I was angry that I really didn't know what I was depressed about. The emergency room doctor asked me if I was going to kill myself because he could get me help. So of course I was pissed and agitated and said, "NO". Tim was still worried and upset too. So the doctor gave me two Klonipin I think. I'm not sure what it was but they were green. I don't know what dose they were, but I was out. I vaguely remember walking into the house and talking to my parents. That's it after that. I slept until about noon the next day. The day we were going to Branson to celebrate our 4th anniversary. My husband just hovered and apparently threw every pill away I had ever had while I was asleep. I said I feel better (but I felt like I had been hit in the head with a sledge hammer) and remembered that we were supposed to be going on a trip. oops. So I said lets go ahead and go. He almost went for it, but we got into a big fight when I realized that he threw away all my pills and he noticed fresh cuts on my arms. I was in a place in my mind that I thought he was a nut because they were "just scratches" If he wanted to see a cut, I'd show him a cut. Needless to say he took me to the doctor and the doctor had already called this psych hospital and thought I should be "evaluated". I said no thank you and was then informed that then he would have to call the police and have them take me. Surely he was bluffing right? But there it went again. Suddenly I was afraid of not being in control. He talked about handcuffs and force and it freaked me out. So I went like a good little girl with my husband. We got there for the "evaluation". I talked to a guy named Rick I think. He was probably one of the best intake workers I had ever met. (It's kind of funny that I am the intake coordinator for the office I work for. It's a totally different type of place but I do basically the same stuff. If I think about it, I gave this guy such a hard time and the week before I helped get one our boys admitted to TRMC.) Anyway, I proceded to give him a very difficult time. Especially when I found out that if I did go into the hospital it would have to be volunary. That pissed me off beyond anything in comparison that day. My PCP duped me. He bluffed and I fell for it. So me being unstable that day, being angry, and not being able to control the words spilling out of my mouth, I told this intake worker, my entire plan. oops again! So now I was told that there was a possiblity that I could be forced to stay, but he wouldn't know that until he talked to the oncall doctor. He really didn't think I would be forced since it was the 10th of the month and I didn't plan to do the "act" until the 30th. But he did feel that the doctor would probably approve for me to stay a couple of days. It would be my decision, but my husband would more than likely bring me back closer to the date and I'd have no choice. That just made my head hurt. It still does. Rules, Rules, Rules. All I could think of then was then hell, I'm not waiting until the 30th. I'll do it tonight. duh! right. Well, he sent us into the waiting area while he called the on call. In the mean time my husband pleaded with me to just stay overnight so he wouldn't have to worry about me. He was crying and what could I say to that. I said I'll be fine, but I told him that if I could leave whenever I wanted, I would do it. My husband's an emotional guy but he doesn't just cry. I felt very guilty then. So Rick comes out and says that it's just like he thought. They wouldn't make me stay, but they "recommended" that I "sign myself" in. Ah, good transition for my question. "If I sign myself in - voluntarily- then I can leave when ever I want to right? He looked at me with the "your doing the right thing" look and said "oh, of course". He said that with a straight, sincere face. Where do you learn how to do that anyway? So I did it. I signed myself in. I was in a very bad mood the next day. I saw a doctor who thought meds would be good for me. So me being me, said sure whatever. And I'll be damned if they not only watch me take the pills they also checked to make sure I swallowed them. This didn't feel voluntary to me. So I tested it. I went to a nurse and said I don't think this is the right place for me (there was a woman that I was scared to death I was going to kill. She was tripped out on Lithium or something someone said and she kept wanting to touch me and talk to me about crazy crap)So anyway I tested the voluntary status of my situation and was told that I was there till the doctor released me. Excuse me?! I was told this was voluntary. As in I signed myself in, I was not here by any kind of force. So I'm allowed to leave anytime, Rick told me so. What did she say? "Oh, I wish they would tell people that downstairs." What? She told me that once you sign yourself in you are putting yourself in the doctor's care and that you are essentially agreeing to stay until he or she says you're "ready". I guess the look on my face said, you are about to have a fight on your hands because she then said, "you can fight it, but the doctor can keep you until you see a judge and a judge will decide if you stay or go. And the doctor generally wins." Was she bluffing? Did I want to test it? No, I'd just play the game. I was there about 5 days. While they tampered with different medications to get just the right mix. So on the fifth day I'd had enough. I smiled at the doctor said yes yes "I feel better. Not 100% but I definitely don't feel like killing myself." He's a very sweet doctor and he said okay. He would give a prescription for my meds. Which included Ambien I think (it was some sleep thing) and he wrote and order to let me out. It was great. I knew I still had it in me. So we fill my prescriptions the next day. That next evening I put the bottle of Sleep meds in my pocket and went to bed. My husband was a little trickier then I thought. He was looking for something and said were's the Sleep stuff. It's there. Don't worry about it. I actually think he was counting the pills too. I'm not sure. So we got into a fight. I got up and I rattled. (Imagine that). So he was mad. He knew I was going to take them that night and all he could say was, " you were going to let me find you dead? You were going to let me sleep in a bed all night with a dead body?" And my very rational reply was, "we don't even know if thirty of these things would kill me. I might just be sick." That helped my case. I really need to learn to shut up.

I guess I didn't think that through. But I was desperate and I emotionally I felt worse than when I first went to the hospital. So at midnight here we go again. He took me right back. But I wasn't playing along. On the way I almost killed us both because he wouldn't pull over. So I thought I'd help him drive. He could work the pedals I'll run the steering. I think that was the madest I'd ever seen him.

They admitted me right on the spot. There wasn't a lot of arguing that night. So I spent another 6 or 7 days. About day three I would tell the doctor I was feeling a lot better, but they were a little more hesitant. Anyway, things did get a little better for me emotionally, but believe it or not we're still playing with my meds. At least we were. I think they pretty much got it right to the best of their ability. I hate taking meds so any little side affect has me hopping. My doctor now probably dreads the days when he sees my name on his roster. He's gone through pretty much every med with me and I don't like it for some reason or another. But he's patient (you have to be with crazy people) and he changes the med. He's never been too thrilled with the therapist I chose to see. When I first told him I would be seeing her twice a month, he didn't like that. He told me to ask if she would she me every week and she could call him if she needed to. So I told her and we saw each other once a week for about 6 weeks and she has deemed me cured! So I'll she her again in about 3 weeks. Well I had been seeing the doctor about every two weeks because he kept changing my meds and he didn't want leave me "hanging" if the meds turned out to not be right. Well those two weeks and then now with the three weeks have been my "emotional" almost unstable times. My therapist had me working on past abuse and journaling which we hardly discussed and since I guess I acted so much better, she thinks I am. Unfortunately for me, I am good at BS. And I have what I call my "work mode". This person is very confident and smiles a whole lot. Then she goes into her office locks the door and cries or tries to slow her racing heart and the panic attack that's about to strike. So most people fall for it. This doctor though is kind of stoic and very nonemotional and he doesn't buy it. Or he notices little things. I'm not sure what it is, but he would like me to see a therapist in his department (is this a money thing? who knows). My husband couldn't agree more. Since this doctor has been right everytime so far. And has been patient and will sit and answer any questions I have. So guess what? I start seeing a new therapist later this month. The day after my appointment with my current Therapist. She likes to see you face to face when you terminate services so I'm still going to the appointment. Besides she still has my journal. What the hell am I'm going to tell her? My husband and Doctor think you suck so I'm going to someone new? I think she's great. Once every three weeks sounds great to me.