My story is not over.

A few months ago I gave up.

I gave up on life.

I gave up on hope.

I gave up on myself.

That night I took all of my anxiety meds and went to bed. I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want to be stopped. I didn’t write a note because I figured that having witnessed my downward spiral, people could put things together on their own. I knew exactly what I was doing and it was what I wanted. Without me, my family could move on. No one would have to spend time worrying about me. The doctors, medicines, therapy sessions, and hospitalizations would be no more. It would just be so much easier for everyone if I went away for good. I think it’s fairly obvious, since I’m telling you this, that my attempt to leave this hell behind didn’t work out.

The months after that were mostly spent alone, curled up in my bed, trying to avoid the world. I wanted desperately for people to show me that they cared. Saying it is one thing, proving it is another story entirely. Words meant nothing to me. My brain and heart couldn’t seem to get on the same page. I could be told over and over how loved I am, but I could never seem to believe it. In my head, I am the worst person to walk this Earth. I am a burden that people just pretend to want around. For many years, I have felt like I play second fiddle, if you will, because there is always someone or something that is more important than me. Living like that caused me to fall further and further into the darkness of my illnesses. My mind constantly told me how unloved, unwanted, not cared for, and just plain forgettable I was. I had no idea how to make it stop.

Then 5 weeks ago, I had an especially bad night. I wanted to give up again. But this time, I ended up looking through my paperwork from my first hospital stay. The papers said to call the psych evaluation nurse. So I called the nurse…I told her the truth about how I wasn’t safe at home by myself and I was seriously considering giving up for real.  The nurse told me to get to the emergency room ASAP, but not to drive myself. It was the middle of the night and I had no one to call to take me. Next thing I knew, 2 police officers were at my front door and the nurse was calling me back to make sure they’d gotten to me. Then came the paramedics and the great fun of explaining that I had taken an overdose of sleeping pills

I was taken by ambulance to the emergency room where I spent the rest of my night sitting alone and waiting. I was admitted to the Marian Center and I must say I was glad that they kept me. The hospital is a safe place. People are always checking on you and keeping tabs on you to make sure you’re ok. When you’ve felt for so long that you don’t have control over your own brain and it tends to wander into darkness, you live in near constant fear. At least I do when it gets bad. I’m scared of my own mind. I saw a new psychiatrist while I was there and he added even MORE meds (I hate taking so many meds each day). I also started my ECT treatments while I was there. I truly believe that my stay at the hospital saved my life, not to say that I always feel like I want it saved. I still have my days when all I want to do is give up.

There are days that I feel like nothing is ever going to change. Days that I hate myself for being sick and becoming a different version of me. There are days that I fall and can’t do anything. There are days I feel forgotten. I didn’t ask for this and I hate what it turns me into. I hate how much it has taken from me. I hate that I push away the people that I love and end up alone. Oh well, what’s done is done and I’m desperately trying to pick up all of the pieces of my life and put them back together.

The strangest snow day there ever was.

Thursday morning around 5 am, I found myself standing on my mom’s porch, in the snow; wearing pajamas, chacos, and a light fleece jacket. I remember my mom coming to the door and starting to freak out. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what she was so worried about; all I had done was show up at her house for breakfast as I do almost every single day. Sure, this time I had walked through the snow wearing sandals. And yeah, I was still wearing my pajamas and my jacket was nowhere near warm enough, but so what? Once I got inside, my mom kept asking where all I’d been and how long I’d been outside and what did I think I was doing. Unfortunately, I couldn’t answer those questions. I did have a few to ask myself though, “Where is Casey? She was with me…” and “What about Blondie? She should be here, too.”

“Jacque…what are you talking about? Casey is in Kansas and Blondie is in Joplin…you came here alone…”

 

“Oh wait,” I quickly said, “I meant Karman, I know she’s here, I can see her red hair peeking up over the couch and she was just at my house for hours before I decided to come here.”

“Jacque,” my mom said slowly, "I haven’t seen Karman in months, she didn’t come here with you…”

At this point, I was beginning to think things were a bit odd. After all, I distinctly remembered walking out of my house all together. I remember passing certain houses. I remember that when we arrived, my mom was standing by a big tree in her yard talking to her neighbor. It didn’t matter to me that there haven’t been neighbors there for probably a year, I KNEW I saw them. For the next couple of hours, I sat very still and confused as my mom kept trying to get straighter answers out of me. The thing was, I just couldn’t remember things, I tried so hard and all I could remember was the fact that I’d kept running into things in my house while Karman and I had been there chatting.

I got dropped back off at my house and tucked into my bed to warm up. Apparently, I didn’t do much sleeping though as my mom tells me she later returned to find me standing in my room talking to one of my teddy bears. I had tried to change my clothes, but couldn’t even handle that as I stood there in shorts, one sock, and my fleece jacket with no shirt under it. This gap of time when I was home alone is the hardest part to remember. Perhaps the being out in the cold had made me slightly more aware of things while I was outside walking. Who knows?

I certainly don’t know. I bet I do know one thing though, I bet at this point you’re thinking, “Man, this girl must have been seriously fucked up that night.” The thing is I wasn’t. I was stone cold sober. And I suppose that’s what really makes this deal a bit creepy for me. It would make more sense if I had been impaired. Like in Perks of Being a Wallflower when Charlie is given acid and he ends up standing in the driveway shoveling a perfect circle in the snow. But as I said, he was tripping so it made sense for him to think a tree turned into a dragon and for him to just fall asleep in the snow. My experience makes for less sense. After reading various things on the internet about this type of scenario (and after my mom called my nurses from the psych hospital to get their advice/ opinions) I believe I suffered what is known as a psychotic break. The basic premise being that sometimes things just get so bad in the brain that it shuts off for a little while; and you end up hallucinating.

This has never happened to me before and, man, I hope it never does again. It was the most terrifying thing I have ever experienced. On that note, I suppose I can update on my brain in general again. On December 15, I was again admitted to the Marian Center because my treatment team and I all deemed me a danger to myself. I started an additional medication there which brings me up to 3 psych meds every day. Fun times. I also started my ECT treatments while I was in the hospital. They were pretty uneventful and all I can really remember from those days is being put to sleep the waking up later in my room. Unfortunately, I can’t say I’ve seen much of a change from the ECT treatments. Still, I haven’t given up hope that they may kick in later like medication is supposed to work.

Thank you all very much for your words of support and encouragement as I continue to try and battle through these long days and nights. You are far more helpful and uplifting than you can ever know. Also, please know that I don’t write about these things for attention. I write about these things because they should be perfectly normal to discuss, just like any other illness. I write about these things because I want someone else to see that it’s ok to reach out for help.