Okay, here goes.
As a lot of you know, just over six months ago I tried to kill myself. I reached a point in my life that I could not understand and refused to deal with. And what I'm going to do here is to explain what happened there and what has happened since, because a lot of you have been coming to me with questions about how I'm doing.
The evening that it happened I was resolved. It was the 21st of December. I think it is the most "crazy" I have ever been. There was nothing in my head except for what I had to do. I took 64 paracetemol and chased those with a half of a bottle of vodka. I collapsed on my bed and did not come round until I was in the hospital. I was out for a long time before I was revived. The doctors and nurses were a bit loathe to bother, I think, as apparently they really took their time. I can't say I particularly blame them. The first thing I saw upon coming round was my Dad crying his eyes out, and that image will stay with me until the day I die. Things are a tad blurry but I will try to explain them as best and in as much detail as I can.
When I was still in the emergency department and recovering extremely fast due to my rather awesome immune system and brilliant upchuck reflex that meant I didn't need a stomach pump, a psychiatrist visited my parents and I to tell me that if I didn't check myself into a mental institute I would be sectioned and forced in. I cried a lot, as did my Mother, at the thought of having to spend Christmas in one of these places, but understood that it would be better for me if I checked myself in as opposed to being forced.
During recovery, I had to wait six hours for the car to pick me up and take me to the institute. My Dad went home to get me some books, my ipod and clothes etc for staying in the hospital. I was desperate for a cigarette, so I begged my Mother to take me outside, with a nurse's permission, to have a cigarette. She reluctantly agreed, and I went outside. I lit the cigarette and it tasted wonderful, but all the chemicals in my bloodstream from being revived clashed nastily with the nicotine, and I ended up being violently sick in a bin outside the hospital. My Mother wouldn't let me keep smoking, so I went back inside. Shortly afterward the car arrived to take me to the institute. I was not happy to be in the car, but fell into a very uneasy sleep on the way, and managed not the vomit on the driver's seats. As soon as I arrived I was taken into an interview room, where I continued to vomit extremely violently every fifteen minutes. The nurse, there, Paul, was quite friendly but very businesslike and made it very clear to me that I had to sign myself in or I would be forced in, drugged and basically imprisoned in solitary confinement.
Paul showed me round the institute. There was a basic dining area, wings of the hospital for male and female, a very crap TV room and a garden. I tried again to have a cigarette, which I managed to stomach without vomitting, but ran back inside feeling dreadful. I went back to the room that I knew my parents were in but it was locked and they were gone. I started to panic thinking I was going to vomit right there in the corridor, and collapsed on the floor unable to breathe. Luckily, I think for them rather than me, a woman walked through the door right then and let me into the interview room, where I continued to sit and be sick until my parents returned. I was brought toast which didn't stay in my stomach for very long.
My parents came back and told me that they'd been told I would not be out before Christmas. I was very upset to hear that, and they had also been asked to leave so that I could continue there alone.
I went to my room, where I took a picture of myself on my phone to commemorate the occasion.
Shortly afterwards, I fell asleep and slept (with breaks for vomitting into my sink) until the early hours of the morning. I woke up because I had locked the door, but a nurse had worried about this and they both unlocked my door and left it open. Looking at my phone I realised it had been exactly 24 hours since I had been revived. I managed to force myself back into sleep.
The next day I woke up very early, forced myself to wash and clean my teeth, and went outside into the garden to smoke. My Dad had kindly stocked my luggage with enough cigarettes to last me a week. I had my ipod firmly secured in my ears, and was resolved not to speak to a single one of these crazy people. Outside I sat in the small shelter they had, and began writing down events that got me there. An hour later I was disturbed for breakfast, which I didn't want as I still felt a little squiffy.
Breakfast was my definition of hell. As all meals are served at certain times every person in the institute who isn't in solitary turns up. I was stared at, I was the youngest person there, and everyone there acted as though they were insane. I knew I obviously wasn't sane, but I was proud that I at least acted as though I was semi normal. One woman spent the whole of breakfast clawing at her cup of tea and screaming at another man that he was a Nazi.
I spent a lot of time over the next 2 days sitting in the smoking shelter. I was spoken to, but I never gave anything away about why I was there, and I never gave in to what was so tempting, which was to act like there was something wrong with me. Every day I spoke to a psychiatrist, but he was a complete jerk. He acted like I was a piece of scum because of what I had done, he told me, like every other doctor has told me, that I was bipolar, that I had post-traumatic stress disorder, etc etc. I complied to everything the doctors and nurses said, tried to eat well and never kicked up a fuss.
Christmas Eve brought good news. I was going to be let out that evening. I was excited to be let out but scared to death of going home. While I was there my sisters came to visit me, and told me what had happened while I'd been gone. My second eldest sister had launched herself at my Mother, and had told my Dad all about the affairs that she'd been having for nearly all the years of their marriage. My family was falling apart. I was scared to go back to my bedroom - the room I'm currently sitting in, because I feared what I would feel and find there, and I was scared to see my friends, and speak to people on SG, but I knew that if I stayed in the institute, it would tear my Mother apart and I would get worse, not better.
I was placed on "red alert" with the institute, and was told that the "crisis team" would be visiting me every day, including Christmas day, to see how I was progressing at home.
Arriving home was one of the strangest things I've ever experienced. For the first time in years, it felt like Christmas, but not in the right way. My house was decorated... mostly by me, but it felt like someone else had done that, and years ago rather than days. I went upstairs and I was told that I was not allowed to spend very much time alone. I had a shower and ventured into my bedroom. My Dad had cleaned it. There were no pill packets, no suicide note and no vodka. My rats seemed very pleased to see me. I dressed, tied my hair back and went downstairs. My mother served a nice dinner, and then I went to see one of my best friends, Alice, with my sisters. I was not allowed out alone.
Alice was slightly angry with me for what I'd done, but understood. She commented on how extremely thin I was, and I explained that I had vomitted for 24 hours straight. I think anyone's bound to lose a little weight at that point.
When I got home I logged into SG chat. Chatters will know they were quite pleased to see me, alive. Turned out there was some controversy on the night off my attempt, but I'll not go into that to save people's consciences, but if you're reading this, I'm finally ready to let you know that I know what you witheld.
I slept early, for me, and well. I woke on Christmas day and went downstairs. My parents weren't really speaking but the whole day they tried to give me the most normal Christmas that they could, despite the "crisis team" meeting, the fact that I hadn't really found my voice and my parents' obvious hatred of each other. I think I was still in rather a lot of shock.
The next few days are particularly blurry, but during my apologies to people that I hurt, one boy came up on my list.
On January 2nd he asked me to be his girlfriend, and I agreed. Since then he has been everything I could look for. The sooner I am near him the sooner I can put to rest everything I was.
In conclusion, attempting suicide is just not worth it.
More will follow about what has happened since, but for now I am tired, and don't feel particularly well.
As a lot of you know, just over six months ago I tried to kill myself. I reached a point in my life that I could not understand and refused to deal with. And what I'm going to do here is to explain what happened there and what has happened since, because a lot of you have been coming to me with questions about how I'm doing.
The evening that it happened I was resolved. It was the 21st of December. I think it is the most "crazy" I have ever been. There was nothing in my head except for what I had to do. I took 64 paracetemol and chased those with a half of a bottle of vodka. I collapsed on my bed and did not come round until I was in the hospital. I was out for a long time before I was revived. The doctors and nurses were a bit loathe to bother, I think, as apparently they really took their time. I can't say I particularly blame them. The first thing I saw upon coming round was my Dad crying his eyes out, and that image will stay with me until the day I die. Things are a tad blurry but I will try to explain them as best and in as much detail as I can.
When I was still in the emergency department and recovering extremely fast due to my rather awesome immune system and brilliant upchuck reflex that meant I didn't need a stomach pump, a psychiatrist visited my parents and I to tell me that if I didn't check myself into a mental institute I would be sectioned and forced in. I cried a lot, as did my Mother, at the thought of having to spend Christmas in one of these places, but understood that it would be better for me if I checked myself in as opposed to being forced.
During recovery, I had to wait six hours for the car to pick me up and take me to the institute. My Dad went home to get me some books, my ipod and clothes etc for staying in the hospital. I was desperate for a cigarette, so I begged my Mother to take me outside, with a nurse's permission, to have a cigarette. She reluctantly agreed, and I went outside. I lit the cigarette and it tasted wonderful, but all the chemicals in my bloodstream from being revived clashed nastily with the nicotine, and I ended up being violently sick in a bin outside the hospital. My Mother wouldn't let me keep smoking, so I went back inside. Shortly afterward the car arrived to take me to the institute. I was not happy to be in the car, but fell into a very uneasy sleep on the way, and managed not the vomit on the driver's seats. As soon as I arrived I was taken into an interview room, where I continued to vomit extremely violently every fifteen minutes. The nurse, there, Paul, was quite friendly but very businesslike and made it very clear to me that I had to sign myself in or I would be forced in, drugged and basically imprisoned in solitary confinement.
Paul showed me round the institute. There was a basic dining area, wings of the hospital for male and female, a very crap TV room and a garden. I tried again to have a cigarette, which I managed to stomach without vomitting, but ran back inside feeling dreadful. I went back to the room that I knew my parents were in but it was locked and they were gone. I started to panic thinking I was going to vomit right there in the corridor, and collapsed on the floor unable to breathe. Luckily, I think for them rather than me, a woman walked through the door right then and let me into the interview room, where I continued to sit and be sick until my parents returned. I was brought toast which didn't stay in my stomach for very long.
My parents came back and told me that they'd been told I would not be out before Christmas. I was very upset to hear that, and they had also been asked to leave so that I could continue there alone.
I went to my room, where I took a picture of myself on my phone to commemorate the occasion.
Shortly afterwards, I fell asleep and slept (with breaks for vomitting into my sink) until the early hours of the morning. I woke up because I had locked the door, but a nurse had worried about this and they both unlocked my door and left it open. Looking at my phone I realised it had been exactly 24 hours since I had been revived. I managed to force myself back into sleep.
The next day I woke up very early, forced myself to wash and clean my teeth, and went outside into the garden to smoke. My Dad had kindly stocked my luggage with enough cigarettes to last me a week. I had my ipod firmly secured in my ears, and was resolved not to speak to a single one of these crazy people. Outside I sat in the small shelter they had, and began writing down events that got me there. An hour later I was disturbed for breakfast, which I didn't want as I still felt a little squiffy.
Breakfast was my definition of hell. As all meals are served at certain times every person in the institute who isn't in solitary turns up. I was stared at, I was the youngest person there, and everyone there acted as though they were insane. I knew I obviously wasn't sane, but I was proud that I at least acted as though I was semi normal. One woman spent the whole of breakfast clawing at her cup of tea and screaming at another man that he was a Nazi.
I spent a lot of time over the next 2 days sitting in the smoking shelter. I was spoken to, but I never gave anything away about why I was there, and I never gave in to what was so tempting, which was to act like there was something wrong with me. Every day I spoke to a psychiatrist, but he was a complete jerk. He acted like I was a piece of scum because of what I had done, he told me, like every other doctor has told me, that I was bipolar, that I had post-traumatic stress disorder, etc etc. I complied to everything the doctors and nurses said, tried to eat well and never kicked up a fuss.
Christmas Eve brought good news. I was going to be let out that evening. I was excited to be let out but scared to death of going home. While I was there my sisters came to visit me, and told me what had happened while I'd been gone. My second eldest sister had launched herself at my Mother, and had told my Dad all about the affairs that she'd been having for nearly all the years of their marriage. My family was falling apart. I was scared to go back to my bedroom - the room I'm currently sitting in, because I feared what I would feel and find there, and I was scared to see my friends, and speak to people on SG, but I knew that if I stayed in the institute, it would tear my Mother apart and I would get worse, not better.
I was placed on "red alert" with the institute, and was told that the "crisis team" would be visiting me every day, including Christmas day, to see how I was progressing at home.
Arriving home was one of the strangest things I've ever experienced. For the first time in years, it felt like Christmas, but not in the right way. My house was decorated... mostly by me, but it felt like someone else had done that, and years ago rather than days. I went upstairs and I was told that I was not allowed to spend very much time alone. I had a shower and ventured into my bedroom. My Dad had cleaned it. There were no pill packets, no suicide note and no vodka. My rats seemed very pleased to see me. I dressed, tied my hair back and went downstairs. My mother served a nice dinner, and then I went to see one of my best friends, Alice, with my sisters. I was not allowed out alone.
Alice was slightly angry with me for what I'd done, but understood. She commented on how extremely thin I was, and I explained that I had vomitted for 24 hours straight. I think anyone's bound to lose a little weight at that point.
When I got home I logged into SG chat. Chatters will know they were quite pleased to see me, alive. Turned out there was some controversy on the night off my attempt, but I'll not go into that to save people's consciences, but if you're reading this, I'm finally ready to let you know that I know what you witheld.
I slept early, for me, and well. I woke on Christmas day and went downstairs. My parents weren't really speaking but the whole day they tried to give me the most normal Christmas that they could, despite the "crisis team" meeting, the fact that I hadn't really found my voice and my parents' obvious hatred of each other. I think I was still in rather a lot of shock.
The next few days are particularly blurry, but during my apologies to people that I hurt, one boy came up on my list.
On January 2nd he asked me to be his girlfriend, and I agreed. Since then he has been everything I could look for. The sooner I am near him the sooner I can put to rest everything I was.
In conclusion, attempting suicide is just not worth it.
More will follow about what has happened since, but for now I am tired, and don't feel particularly well.
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(Somewhere there's someone who dreams of your smile, and finds in your presence that life is worth while. So when you are lonely, remember it's true, somebody somewhere is thinking of you!)