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.