On Overdosing

Don't.



. . . . If only it were that easy. Sadly, it's not.

There are, in my opinion, two types of overdosing: accidental and intentional. Makes sense, right? Well, it's a little more complicated than that. I think you can have intent, however subtle, and then accidentally overdose. So it's both.

That's what I did. I intentionally, accidentally, overdosed. This happened last Monday (July 29). What a day. It was a bad day. Dark clouds hung around me, threatening to consume me. It started with an appointment to Dr. C where we changed my meds. Yet again. The appointment for me was very weird, very surreal. He was distracted, I was down and apathetic. I didn't really feel anything was accomplished. Stop Cymbalta, start Wellbutrin. Awesome. Thanks. Let's see how I do. I left with tears brimming and it took everything I had to not sob the whole way home.

I spent the rest of the morning in a depressed daze. I sewed, I texted my best friend, I cried. I wanted to escape. That pain was back. That darkness. The fear and hopelessness and sadness and depression. I hurt. I hurt so bad. I had been sucker punched and everything negative invaded my head. All you do is change meds, change meds, change meds. It's hasn't helped. You keep coming back to this. You're always HERE. It's pointless to try.

I sank. I fell, spiraling into a pit of despair with no hope of escape. I didn't care, in that moment, if I lived or died. I didn't care. I thought about cutting, but what purpose would that serve? None. What I wanted was to escape. To not exist, to not deal with these horrible feelings. Because everything was pointless.

I have risperadol in my medicine cabinet in case I get too manic. I've never taken it, but's a downer right? It would bring me down from a manic high, so surely it would help me sleep. The dose on the bottle is 1-2 tabs (each tab is 2mg).

I took 3. Only 3.

See, my intent wasn't to overdose myself. My intent was to sleep. However, I didn't care if I lived or died - let's keep that in mind. I wanted to escape and if I died . . .

Subtle intent.

I spent Monday night in and out of consciousness. Literally. I could not keep my eyes open. I had a hard time understanding anything said to me. When I did try to stand, I couldn't walk in a straight line and the world threatened to collapse around me. I slurred my words. The whole thing is a blur - I only remember little snippets of the night. But I know I just wanted to slip into a drug induced coma.

But my hubby, J, wouldn't let me. He pestered me to keep me as conscious as he could. I hated him for that. In the moment, I hated him for that. Let me be. Let me go.

But he persisted. And had he not, I truly fear how bad it could have gotten.

Tuesday came, and I could still hardly stay awake. Thank God my son stayed over with a friend all day. Again, I was in and out. But it was sleep this time - not consciousness. J had said I had to text him every hour or he would admit me. I set the alarm on my phone and went to sleep. The alarm went off, I texted, set the alarm for an hour later, and went back to sleep. That was Tuesday. I know I showered, but I don't quite remember it.

J and I had a talk Tuesday night. A hard talk. A long talk. I hated how I felt Monday and Tuesday. It was terrible. I've never been so terrified but apathetic at the same time in my life. It was all very confusing. No, I won't do it again, trust me. Yes, I'll stop being an ass and I'll call. I'll reach out.

And then J said something that was a slap in the face. A completely profound and nasty thing to say to me. And all I could do was cry.

What's your earliest memory of your mom? Because that was you last night. Is that what you want A to remember?

My first memory of my mom . . . I think I was in kindergarten, maybe 1st grade. A's age - 6. She was drunk, passed out on the floor. My brother, who is younger that me, and I were home alone with her. And we couldn't wake her up. And it was terrifying and scarring and I mean fuck - I remember that shit.

And that was me.

Subtle intent. An accidental overdose.

Don't.

It's what I tell myself. And I know better, I do. But that's my 3rd overdose in a year.

Sometimes, the need to escape myself is more than I can bare. I've been trying so hard to be well, and it's tiring. Sometimes, I want to give up. And sometimes, I do.

Subtle intent.

Don't.

I won't. I promise.