Monday, June 14, 2010
eginning last Friday it seemed my life could not find an up. I struggled to stay afloat and the surging waves and relentless tide demanded that I go under. It is suffocating and defeating breath after breath... stroke after stroke. My own life is toxic. The barrage of shitty moments is too much for me to bare. Why should I try to fight back?
Everything was already in shambles but the day, that day, was one of trigger after trigger...
It started the night before when I found out my boyfriend wouldn't be taking me to my medical exam. The exam where I am poked, prodded, and scraped for skin cells off of my cervix. Completely uncomfortable... and as a victim of rape and abuse this exam is more than painful, it is emotional and at some points intolerable. I fall asleep crying.
I woke up to the realization that I was so very alone. I tried to call my mom and ask her to come with me. But as soon as she picked up, she listed all the many things she had to do that day and all the stress she was under. I was scared but I decided not to ask. I didn't want to stress her additionally.
I went to the exam and it was painful, as always. But I didn't have his hand to hold. And my already shakey state of mind had my body tense and frightened. I was so clenched that she had to force me open. They kept telling me to breathe and telling me it would be okay. It didn't feel okay. I wanted to sob. I wanted to yell at them to take that fucking speculum out of me. I wanted it to be over, because I knew if I made them take it out, they'd just have to start the painful process all over again.
I went to work and sat down at my new desk. Piles of assignments from my old position were weighing on my mind... and thoughts of new and unknown assignments were creeping in to join the mass of stress bringing me down. I went to my first meeting with my new boss. He gave me a three page sheet of the tasks that would be encountered in my position. I told him my tendency to be late and he gave a lecture on the importance of being on time. I don't think anyone actually chooses to be late. To wake up in the morning and say, "hey, you know what? I think I'll be late today. Start my day off badly and have my boss pissed off at me." It's simple... I am not a morning person. Waking up is like trying to get scrambled eggs off of an ungreased cast iron pan. It's not happening fast, that's for sure! I walked out feeling inadequate and destined to fail.
The evening was decent. A lot of tiptoeing around trying not to let a fight start between him and I. Trying not to let myself be the crazy bitch I seem to be. I missed his touch. I missed his loving thoughts of me. I missed him holding my hand. Not one inch of me knew how to fix it and every effort just seemed to wedge us further apart. I stayed quiet.
We laid down in bed and he asked why I hadn't taken my clothes off. The signal that I wasn't alright and he was receiving. I said to him... "I'm not ready. I still don't feel safe and I don't know how to tell you." I tried to explain and it blew up. He was in pain from a stomache ache and my conversation was ill-timed. I didn't know how to make it right. I'm hurting and I don't know what to say to fix it. I'm afraid.
I attempted suicide because what else is there? It was not planned. It was an act of hopeless, bottomless depression.
I began to sob and went out to the living room to feel less vulnerable. He is sitting there like stone and I am crying my eyes out. I find my sobbing to be too loud for the living room. I grab the paring knife off the counter and walk out to my balcony. I sit on the ground and cry. I try to muffle my whimpers. I pressed the knife tight to my wrist. I wished I could pull. I thought about it enough... and pulled. A slight red line came across my wrist... but no blood. I wondered... do I not want it enough? I placed it over my wrist and pulled... and pulled... and pulled again. The blood refused to pour. The sobs turned to a silent numbness.
I hate myself... that is all there is to it. So unhappy with myself. So angry that I messed up this relationship. I realized I just wasn't strong enough to cut my wrist and this knife was far too dull. I thought about the Iron pills sitting on my dresser. The prescription I was given for Anemia and choose not to take. I know they are lethal, easily lethal... and I have so many. In my silent paralysis I walked into the bedroom. I flipped on the light and tried to begin the conversation from a better, less attacking angle. He was angry, more angry than I had ever seen him before! His responses were stinging full of sarcasm, doubt, and resentment. His face was empty. He didn't see me like he used to see me. He came back because it was easy. He hated me... and I hated me!
I pulled the box from my drawer and popped out four pills. I held them in my shaking hand as I began to sob again. I took one. I didn't know what was right. I was so angry with me. I ruined us... I ruin everything... it will not get better despite what they all say. They say that to keep you moving, but really we are all down. The economy, the country, the world. Everything is wrong and so am I.
I popped the three open pills. I burst out into tears. I began writing emails. First, to my mother... the one I am most worried about. ...I popped ten more pills. I don't want her to be mad at me; I know she will be. I popped five more pills. Then my dad... he resented my uncle for killing himself. I heard the things they said about him. How he was a coward and took the easy way out. I asked him to forgive me, that I couldn't handle the hard way any more. I popped six more pills. Then my step mother. She has always been a beacon for me, a light, a vision of possible happiness. I'm not as strong as her. I popped ten more. I told them all I loved them. I messaged my cousin, my best friend, my sister. I told her to understand and to take care of my mother and cats. I popped five more to be sure it would work.
Thirty-five, three hundred twenty-five milligram tablets. I was sure to die. I don't want to chance it. I laid down with the lights off and begged for it to come, begged for it to wash over and swallow me.
I had to pee. I peed. I had to pee again. I peed. I had to pee again. ... I peed. Each time I grew more apprehensive of my decision. I googled the effects of this type of poisoning. It was vile, painful, and awful. This is not what I wanted. I called Poison control and asked if I could puke it. She was adamant that I not do that, that I should go to an ER immediately. I didn't want to go. ...
... I reached out for help... I called my mom. I told her and she was so sad and scared. I knew she didn't want this, I've always known that. She said puke and she'd find an answer. So... I puked. Over and over. It was dry and chalky. So dry it was blocking my throat as I puked. I tried not to choke. I puked about six times. She came and got me... she took me to the ER.
I puked it all up. I'm alive. So... what now?