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.