The Overdose V

It was nothing to fret about dying’s potential over. 54 tablets aren’t going to do that, especially if prompt treatment is sought.

I wasn’t in a terrible mood that day; I had come from an appointment with my psychiatrist, which went well. And I had a therapy class in a few hours. I went into my bedroom and saw the bottle of Clonazepam and something in me just said “take all of them, the lot, now.” I counted them to see how many milligrams I’d be taking – 108. Not that I did anything with that information; I didn’t Google “100mg Clonazepam overdose. I decided I was anxious and should use the pills appropriately and take 3 (a little more than prescribed, but ok) to calm myself down. Only the three pills hit my hand and my mind screamed out “what are you doing, take all of them, you’ve already got them out.” So I did.

Within a minute I’d decided to call an ambulance. I was home alone and if I caught a taxi I might pass out on the way to the hospital and then both me, and the driver would be in trouble, or the taxi might not even arrive before I’d passed out. I felt guilty using ambulance resources for something self inflicted, but it was the only safe way to get there, and by time we arrived at the hospital I was in need of help getting out.

I was put in Short Stay, totally bypassed the Emergency Department and then there’s a massive blank. I was later told when asking why I hadn’t seen a doctor yet that I had actually seen two. I asked if that happened when I was unconscious but they said I hadn’t lost consciousness, so I don’t know what to make of that chunk of lost time and invisible doctors and the mysterious cannula in my arm. Throughout the night and following day the psychiatric triage nurse came to see me many times. He seemed keen to get rid of me. I had to ask a nurse if I could stay the night since I could hardly walk, my request was granted. And then they kept me until 3pm the following day anyway.

I went home with the knowledge that I’d be admitted to the first available bed in the clinic I frequent so I got to packing. I don’t remember much of those few hours. A friend, D, came over with some dinner for us to share – I’d forgotten she was coming and my housemate had to wake me up. D is great. I think after that I just did the last bits of packing and slept.

In the morning I received a call telling me there was a bed on the elderly ward sharing a room with an 84 year-old woman who would be going home the following day. I said I’d take it. I needed the hospital care; I could still hardly walk.

I kept taking tiny naps in the taxi, but he needed me to tell him the side street the hospital entrance is on, so I couldn’t just sleep until we got here. It was a challenge staying awake in a nice smooth humming taxi whilst drugged to the eyeballs with what I would later learn is a benzodiazepine with one of the longest half-lives.

I’ve been here nine days now, only the last four have I felt more normal. I’m still in the elderly ward, but the morning after my arrival they moved me into a private room. It’s the same as every other room in the hospital except there’s a chair in the shower, which I have to move out of the way. Though I’ll admit for my first shower here I actually needed it as I couldn’t stand long enough to wash my hair and not fall over washing my legs and feet. The sedation from the overdose wore off slowly over a week. My doctor restricted me to the ward to have my meals delivered by the kitchen to the special elderly dining room up here because he didn’t trust me on my feet. I’m still having my breakfasts up here but the last three days I’ve started going down to the main dining room and choosing my food like everyone else, not ticking it off a list a day earlier. During the earlier days when I was quite sedated a friend, R, came to see me and I had to ask her to leave in the end. Usually I love company and I don’t want it to end and I hadn’t seen her for ages but I felt I was about to fall over. D came another day and I was very groggy but better than when she’d come to my house. It’s embarrassing that people have seen me like this. There’s my mum as well, she just ranted on about how selfish I was and the damage I’d done to my organs – untrue according to my doctor.

You may be wondering why I’m still here if the sedation has worn off and I’m safe on my feet again. That’s the suicidal ideation; it’s strong at the moment. My doctor is trying to get me to make a pact not to do it for three months and then after three months hopefully I’ll have made some progress in life and I can commit to another three months. The idea is accepting that in those three month periods there are going to be some very strong urges and times I just can’t cope, but I’ve made this pact that I’m not going to exit and instead work through it with my doctor or other health professional. I haven’t been able to agree to this yet because I see my life being only weeks longer, not months. If I was sent home today I wouldn’t kill my-self but next time the awful crushing feeling came on or I was overtaken by hopelessness I wouldn’t hesitate, providing I had a plan - which at the moment I only have the outlines of.

I have good friends and I’m very grateful for them, three came yesterday and one only just left, I’ve known her since I was 14 and I’ll be 30 in a few weeks. Friends aren’t enough to keep me alive. I need something to make up a life, some purpose and the absence of this pain and the thoughts.

New

I’ve been out of hospital for eight days, and they’ve been very good days. Last Monday I moved into my new house and I couldn’t ask for more. My housemate and I get along really well, it’s close to nearly all my friends and I can walk to places. There’s a nice creek with a path a couple of streets to the South and in three minutes I can walk to a very nice café at the end of my street, where there’s also lots of other shops. I’ve never lived within walking distance of anything like this, as a kid there were some shops you could walk to, but nothing special and not this close. And trees! I have trees that haven’t just been planted everywhere I look.

I’m a little worried this arrangement won’t last, but I’ll enjoy it while it does. My housemate and her husband own the house. He works in Brisbane and only comes down when the flights are cheap. She’s going up there for 6 weeks in November / December for work, it’s not a permanent job but if they like her and a job comes up I imagine she’ll take it to be with her husband, and since they own the house I can’t just take over the lease.

My time in hospital went well. I was there three and a half weeks, two of which were for ECT. ECT works very well for me, better than any medication, but without maintenance it won’t last. I feel guilty wishing my dad was still alive purely for my own convenience, but I really need him for this (bringing me home from maintenance). There is my brother but he’d do it very begrudgingly, if at all

I re-gained some trust from my psychiatrist while I was in hospital. For the first time since the tall building and police incident he let me out on leave by my self for walks and coffee etc. Time in there goes much faster when you’re not trapped. I had what I’m pretty sure is the biggest room in the ward - unlike last time where I hardly had room to store my suitcase. I was worried that because I spent a night in ICU someone else would get my room, but they kept it for me.

A friend and I have an agreement to start writing in October, her a Bible study, me a novel. Don’t judge me by this blog, I’ve never really found a style for it; I’ve just wanted to let people see the reality of severe mental illness. I’m worried about my punctuation; I just guess where to put things. I think I’ll be fine with character and plot. I’m curious to see what comes out.

ECT On The Morrow

I just read over my last post, wow, what a mess! Ever heard of a paragraph?! I think it was indicative of my state of mind at the time though.

I’ve been here a week today, one night of which was spent in ICU after apologising to a nurse in advance for the likeliness of her finding my body. I’m grateful to my doctor for not leaving me there any longer than one night; it’s pretty awful. The nature of it means there has to be little privacy, but it could be greatly improved by a fresh coat of paint and something to do other than watch TV or colour in mandalas. My inner bitch came out to play and I was quite unkind to the nurses / captors.

My doctor has decided to give me a round of ECT. I’m a bit unclear on how he reached the decision, but I think it’s because we needed fast improvement given how bent on killing myself I was. I say was because I’ve told him I won’t try it in hospital, it would be difficult and if I survive I’d be banned from the hospital and probably dumped as his patient.

I’ve written in the past about how much ECT (Electroconvulsive Therapy) has affected my memory, but I was mistaken. A couple of months ago I had a neuropsychology assessment – a 5-hour test on memory among other things. It was determined that my memory issues are due to severe depression, which can impair recollection and creation of memories. The type of memories I’ve lost don’t correlate with ECT memory loss and my depression was rated at the top of the scale they used.

Although I know about my memory I am still a little anxious about losing more. I have no fear of the procedure, the first of which is tomorrow morning, just the memory side of things. I think this session will take me into the 30s for ECT. It’s so high because I’ve had maintenance sessions where you come in once a week as an outpatient. I probably need to do that again but my Dad is dead and he played a role in me being able to come. Mum would drop me off before work (I had to be here early) and then later Dad would pick me up; he worked for himself, so he had the freedom to do that. Now it would mean Mum missing half a day of work once a week, and I can’t catch a taxi home because you have to be accompanied after the treatment. Anyway, I won’t be living with her.

I’ve been introduced to a friend of L’s who is in here at the moment. It’s nice to have someone to talk to, still in the getting-to-know-you phase, but there’s at least someone here I can say hello to (and raid hard drives!)

Stuck on Earth

I’m back in the private psychiatric hospital after spending a night in emergency sleeping on a trolley not much wider that me. It’s hard to describe how numb I am, how numb I have been for quite some time. This is more than what is normal for me; it’s eaten away all that I am. I am unable to get excited about moving house – something I’ve wanted for over a year-and-a-half and which is finally happening. And I feel like I need to open a valve in my chest to let out the blackness. I’m not in here for numbness though. I’m here because I have an active suicide plan, which should work and I’m desperate for it to. Seeking help when you’re feeling like that seems pretty counterproductive but there is an element of fear, which makes me talk to my psychiatrist to see what he can do. When I saw him last night he suggested putting me on Epilim, a drug I was on a few years ago, which he remembers being effective. I have no memory of it apart from the weight it made me gain (I’m on appetite suppressants now). But I didn’t want to go on it incase it works and I get to a stage where I’m just as hopeless and depressed but lack the drive to kill myself. (I agreed reluctantly) I can’t continue like this. There are ways of doing it in the hospital but if it fails or I’m found before I die there will be all manner of trouble. I was in such a state last night that I would have done it but I was in a shared room and couldn’t predict how long my roommate would be out.

I’ve reached the stage where I feel pretty confident that suicide is how I’ll meet my end. There’s little fear left and a general sense of readiness. My only fear is that it won’t work and I’ll have to live with the consequences. Oh to be an American and have 5 guns in the house. My psychiatrist, emergency and the CAT team got me through the two nights before I came in here. Though I think this admission will just delay the inevitable. It’s hard to say you’re suicidal and then not do it, people don’t understand. It’s a pull. Imagine that piece of chocolate you’re craving and have resisted all night, well it’s not a piece of chocolate but whatever method you’re planning pulls you in like that, it calls your name, taunts you  -“I’m still waiting, what, are you scared?” You almost need to chain yourself to a chair to keep away from whatever it is you’ve got planned

I Had A Few Non-Suicidal Weeks. I Guess That's It For The Year

As most of you have probably seen me whinging about on Facebook I had surgery on my wrist last Monday and I’ve reached the end of my tolerance for the pain. Not only am I sick of it but it’s become worse over the last few days resulting in me going to the GP I don’t like to get some stronger pain relief. He gave me Tramadol and it’s only taking the edge off. I know it’s a ridiculous over-reaction but I’ve been increasingly suicidal, not directly as a way to escape the pain – I know that will be temporary – but out of anger, frustration and boredom. Boredom because I can’t go anywhere without someone else driving me, anger at the pain and frustration at not being able to use my right hand. It feels like it will never come to an end. I’m spending 14 hours a day in bed because it hurts less when I’m still with my hand resting on a pillow and I can just read and listen to music when I’m not asleep. When I’m up I’ve got to try to distract myself from the pain and from the horrible thoughts the pain is bringing up. I haven’t called my psychiatrist because I can’t go to see him until I can drive and I can’t go into hospital because I need to see the surgeon on Tuesday and don’t want to risk missing that.

Today is my second day in pyjamas sitting in front of my laptop; I can’t see the point of getting dressed. Two friends took me out last week; one lives locally, the other more local than most of my friends but still a bit of a drive. I’m grateful to both of them but I’m feeling very isolated and I wish more or my friends were able or willing to come. I’m always aware that one of BPD’s symptoms is manipulation and I worry when I say things like that I’m being manipulative, but I don’t think asserting a need is manipulative. So there it is, please visit me.