I love my job, I love it so so so much. I love it so much that I happily worked 103 hours during my first pay period. And did I tell you I got a cat? I love my Maxie cat and the companionship she provides for me. So, life has truly been great lately. I've had several breakfast and lunch dates with my parents, been seeing my therapists, and been taking my medications as I ought to be. Unfortunately, my brain hates me....
March 6, 2018
I was doing my nightly duty of counting medications at work and all of the sudden a thought popped into my head, "I could slip a few of these from each bottle and no one would ever notice...I could just take them all when I get home in the morning and wash them down with a healthy serving of alcohol and it would all finally be over." This thought nagged and nagged at me throughout the remainder of my task.
March 7, 2018
Same shit, day 2.
March 8, 2018
Again the thoughts tugged at my brain and wouldn't go away. That morning I had a therapist appointment as I sat in her chair I heard myself say, " I'm done, I just can't do it anymore. I literally do not have it in me to do this for the rest of my life, I can't." I was terrified of the words that were spilling from my mouth. Terrified because I can't seem to control the way these thoughts come in and overtake me. Terrified because I was no longer scared of the thoughts, I was starting to see their validity. "Jacque, I won't send you to the hospital tonight, I think you're alright enough to stay home, but I'm either sending your mom or a police officer to check up on you tonight, you choose which it will be" were the words I got in response. My mother checked on me as I slept the day away as per usual since I had worked all night, I appeared fine because, after all, I was just sleeping peacefully.
Let's fast forward just a couple of days here...
March 11, 2018 (exactly 2 months after my return from my long term treatment program in California)
I had made up my mind. I wasn't going to steal pills from work, but I would get some somewhere to combine with those I already had at home and I was, once again, going to try to end it all. I like to ignore the fact that like 98% of suicide attempts don't actually end in death and think that may, just maybe I'll be in the 2%. My mother was set to be gone for a night on Tuesday to pick up my nephews from my sister, thus there would be no one in town to check up on me. "That's my chance," I thought as I ran through various options for plans in my head. I fell asleep, secure in the knowledge that I wouldn't have to fight myself for much longer. I woke up a few hours later to a text from my friend/ former therapist from California telling me that she was going to check in with me later in the day because she could tell from my texts that something was wrong. At first I told her she didn't have to do that, that I was fine...but later I sent another text saying that the thing that was wrong was that I probably wouldn't be alive after a few days. I thanked her for what she had done to try to help me and said goodbye. I only did this because I, mistakenly, thought that she didn't have phone numbers for my family and surely couldn't do anything about anything from across the country. Needless the say, my phone rang moments later, "what's going on Jacque?" I basically told her that I just didn't know anymore, that it all had come on so suddenly and I felt like this was going to be a cycle for the rest of my life; a cycle I could never break unless I took myself out of the equation. After some therapizing, the ultimatum came, "Jacque you either get to a hospital on your own of I'm calling your parents to take you there." Turns out she still had their numbers and actually could do something from across the country....so I called my mom.
My mom took me to the ER where they decided that I needed to be admitted for inpatient psychiatric care...again. Round 6 for those of you who are counting. Unfortunately they couldn't find a bed for me in town so I was sent to a hospital in Osage Beach. It was a rough night at the ER as I had worked all night and was basically running on zero sleep and trying hard to stay awake for the various tests and questionnaires they had for me. In the wee hours of the morning, I was loaded into an ambulance, we arrived at the other hospital around 4 am. I spent the next 8 days in that hospital having 3 different doctors talk to me, evaluate my situation, and tinker with my medications. (And no, the hospital didn't ACTUALLY have white walls and padded rooms, I just liked that for a title lol)
March 20, 2018
Now here I sit at my mom's house, which will eventually become my house too. The decision was made that right now I'm just still not really safe living on my own. So they're going to build me my own room here. In the mean time, modifications must be made like me keeping only enough pills for a week, spending more of my awake time with my family, and going to therapy more than once a week. Let me tell you that my opinion of all of this is that it sucks. I have been on my own for nearly 10 years now and moving back in with my parents feels almost childish. I don't want to have to make these decisions. I don't want to feel like I can't do things on my own. But I also don't want to do something stupid because my brain got the better of me, and I know this is the best way to keep myself safe; so that's what's going to happen.
For now, I'm stable. I would like to say I'm all better, but I just don't think that's a thing I will ever have the good fortune to be able to say. I'm still coming to terms with this, because it seems so vastly cruel and unfair that I should have to live with a brain that is near constantly trying to kill me, even in the happiest of times. But whatever. Mostly, I'm thankful right now. Thankful for good therapists and good friends who love me even though I couldn't tell you why, thankful for a family that has never left my side through my many storm, and thankful that I'm still here to tell you this story. May I be able to say that for many years to come.
I'll see you tomorrow.
