Eighty percent of depressed people do not seek treatment. This is her story.
I had been overwhelmed for a long time.
I kept saying, "I can't do this anymore," and bless you all. Hearing, "You can do it," helped. But only for a while.
On August 20th the knot in the end of my rope slipped apart and I fell.
I just wanted to NOT BE for a while.
I popped three of my anti-anxiety pills and eight anti-histamines on top of the two large glasses of wine I'd had.
Then I panicked. What if I didn't wake up for my child the next morning? What if I couldn't stay awake? What if I'd overdone it? I just wanted to sleep. But the panic won; I told my mom what I'd done.
My step-dad took me to the hospital; the rest of the night is a little fuzzy. IVs, bloodwork, HIV test after nurse pricked herself, confusion. I was admitted and had a babysitter all night. I slept on and off.
New babysitter the next morning, a change of rooms, a lot of sleep. I didn't want to talk to anyone. My daytime babysitter was uber-talkative. I wanted to tell her to shut the fuck up. Seriously, after overdosing, do I look like I want to talk?
Not so much.
The crisis center psychiatrist came to visit. I had met him once before after my trip to the crisis center. Case worker. I don't even know who else.
My choice: agree to be sent to a psychiatric hospital or be forced. The outcome was the same, so I agreed. I thought I'd only be in for a few days. Not so much.
I hit rock bottom. The bottom of the barrel. I gave in to the pain, to the voice in my head telling me that I didn't want to be alive. I cut my arm. Big angry cuts.
I hit bottom.
But I'm still here. I'm alive and kicking.
Weakly kicking, perhaps, but I'm prepared to do the work necessary to get myself stable.
Every day is the first day of my life.5 Comments