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.
