Tomorrow will mark three years to the day since the last time I overdosed, and made an attempt on my life. Understandably, I guess, I find this date a bit tricky to negotiate. My recollection of that time is disturbing, hazy, random, disjointed. Here are some such memories, I think in chronological order:
In the days leading up to that day, I was increasingly desperate, hopeless and irrational.
On that day, I put my jacket on to leave the house early in the morning. I returned shortly afterwards having bought what I needed to carry out my plan, but I was still wearing my jacket when I was admitted to hospital that evening…I’d never taken it off.
The Cheltenham Festival was on.
Lying on my bedroom floor.
My Brother finding me on my bedroom floor.
Making it to the bathroom, where I pulled the toilet seat off as I tried in vain to keep my balance as I crouched on the floor and vomited.
The phone ringing, ringing, ringing, ringing, ringing…
Voices, lots of different voices, and words like ‘ambulance’ and ‘hospital’.
Tears running down my Mum’s face as the A&E Dr put a cannula in my vein.
Screaming, and ripping the drip from my arm on a busy ward in the dead of night, and being told they’d section me if they had to.
Crying…so much crying.
24 hours after admission, I was finally seen by Psych Liaison and given some Diazepam.
An assessment by the Crisis Team upon my release from hospital…the log burner that my Dad had lit made the living room too hot and stuffy.
Lying on my bed after coming home, trying to muster the energy to tie the cord of my dressing gown to the light on my ceiling.
My Sister climbing into bed with me, holding me as I fought sleep while the meds fought consciousness.