To bring you up to speed a little:
I have suffered (so to speak) from depression for most of my adolescence and all of my adult life. School was one thing - being suicidal for attention, mostly. But somewhere along the way, it metamorphosized (metasticized is more apt) into full-blown, genuine depression.
This disease has been fed by more than a few demons. Bad relationships, painkillers, poor health and eating choices (I am, believe it or not, a teenage diagnosed Type II Adult Onset Diabetic. More on that later...). And, more recently, stronger demons like alcohol, marijuana and abused prescription drugs. While these things did not cause the depression, they stoked the fires and tightened the ropes that would pull me down.
I have attempted suicide, in earnest, twice. Once in 2001 after losing my best friend, my fiancee and my promising career. I took a full bottle of NyQuil gelcaps, washed them down with vodka and Hawaiian Punch (my drink of choice at the time), put on my headphones and went to sleep, with no regard to whether or not I woke up. I did. I did not throw them up, I did not have my stomach pumped. I just woke up.
The second time was December 19th, 2010. After a weekend of partying and drinking with friends, and a day of hanging out with a close friend, I had a breakdown. Already burdened with the grief of losing my Mom in June of that same year, I snapped. All the pills, all the pain, all the failures in my life... I fell to my knees and they avalanched down on me. Sometime in the late evening I drank a bottle of wine, poured out a handful of Klonopin (10 to 15 by my assumption) and laid down on a futon mattress in my living room to await Death. In most cases, my subconscious will usually protect me, pushing me out from in front of traffic or keeping me from walking into walls... my subconscious is a cartoon angel. Well, my cartoon angel had the day off, or was trying to kill me, because somehow along the way I had downed a third of a bottle of codeine cough syrup - with phenergen, which is also an anti-nausea medication. Those pills were going to stay down until they were in my system.
After a few minutes (it might has well have been an hour - my sense of perspective remains screwed up about that night) my breathing began to slow. I felt very very drowsy - not sleepy but discombobulated. I felt a strange calm. No bright light, but the ceiling fan slowed down. Then I felt a presence in the room. Not Jesus. Not Death. Possibly Mom. It was hazy. I picked up my cell phone and texted two people (anonymous for this blog for their sakes, but one is still my friend, though both saved me.) I was told "Puke them up or I'm calling the cops." For some reason, that was what got me up. I said okay, I would. (As if it was a cry for help.) Getting up from a near horizontal position after ingesting that many klonopin (which the body metabolizes like alcohol) was heavy. I felt like I weighed a metric ton, but the slightest incline felt like I was going to fly forward into the TV. I rolled off the side and essentially slithered/crawled on my stomach towards the bathroom, stopping near the fridge to vomit up the first time. I remember counting the pills (half digested) and seeing 7 or so. I made it to the bathroom, and had to force the rest out, which was not easy.
At around 6:30 I posted a nearly indecipherable message on Facebook, apologizing to the two friends who saved me. I went to work, groggy as all hell, told them what happened and had my Dad pick me up. Friend one met me there as well, and we cleaned any threatening substances out of my apartment, went to Goodwill to keep me occupied and then was taken to a safe place to spend the night. The next day I saw my psychiatrist, and we agreed I needed help. I agreed not to harm myself (and to seek help if I thought to do so) and set up plans to go into outpatient therapy. And the rest... that's the next chapter.
C
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