So, it’s not entirely my fault that I’ve not updated lately. Did you know they don’t give you computer access in the loony bin?
Okay, so maybe my jokes really aren’t that funny.
Normally I would feel weird even talking about all of this and would never even think about making something as public as a blog post about it, but I’ve decided that I’m going to stop trying to hide that part of me, and so far it’s making this thing called ‘recovery’ a little easier.
On Saturday January 25th, I overdosed on my antidepressants and anxiety meds. I don’t remember the majority of that weekend, but I remember taking the pills. I remember wanting to fall asleep and not wake up.
I don’t remember what finally pushed me over the edge; after all, I’d been depressed for years and suicidal for months at that point. I don’t remember what turned all the thoughts, the plans, into reality, I just wanted it to work. It didn’t though, and for that I’m grateful.
My soon-to-be ex-husband found me at noon, Sunday the 26th. When he had trouble waking me up, I couldn’t remember what was said two minutes previously and he found the empty pill bottles, phone calls to my mother and an ambulance were made.
Long story short, I spent three weeks in the hospital. I had daily conversations with a psychiatrist, slept a lot, got my meds straightened out, and developed an almost unhealthy obsession with graham crackers. I felt almost as if time had paused. After all, I couldn’t be in the looney bin, right? I wasn’t really crazy.
I watched two roommates get ‘better’ and get released, but they still wouldn’t let me go.
I was in the hospital for three weeks. I was finally released on February 10th.
I have been living with my best friend since my hospital release. Sometimes I think a lot about my stay in the hospital, how it was similar and different to all the different books I had read. How even though I try to pretend that I’m okay, this was something I needed more than I had realized.
Now that I’m back in the real world, I go about my daily routine. I go to work, I come home, I read and watch insane movies with my friends. I’m a normal 20 year old.
But all of my friends know what happened. They see me as fragile, and even though I hate to think of myself as such, I can’t help but be thankful that they’re looking out for me like that. We’ll be watching a movie that someone has already seen and they’ll say “You probably shouldn’t watch this part,” or “Are you sure you’re up for straight up horror?” They’re taking care of me in the best way they know how, even with causal inquiries about whether or not I’ve taken my medicine. While sometimes it seems a little overly mothery, I know they’re doing the best they can and I appreciate every one of them for it.
That first night that I came home, my best friend and I had a ceremonious removal of the hospital bracelet and that night I made a silent vow to not hide my problems and instead be honest about who I am and what is going on with me. That is the only way I’m going to get any better.
My job also keeps me sane. My coworkers are the best I could possibly ask for. They’re a little crazy, but it’s the perfect kind of chaos and friendly teasing. Going to work has definitely added a sense of normality back into my life that has probably done wonders to my recovery.
I still have my days where I’m overly sad. I still have those times where all I want to do is lay in bed, but I know that while I can let myself give into those urges for a little while, I can’t let them control my life anymore.
So I sit here, 18 days later, as my follow up appointment approaches and I can’t help but reflect a little.
So I’m sorry if this post is a little rambly. I didn’t really plan it out before I started so thank you for bearing with me through all of this. I promise, my next post will be a little more put together.
On that note, I hope you all have a wonderful kick off to your weekend. I have what looks like a terribly awful horror movie and some coffee waiting for me. Cheers!