I was numb in my first post about it and I gave you the logistics of what happened, but I never explained to you how I felt then and how I am feeling now. I am mourning the loss of a piece of myself and yes it was fragile and broken, but it was still a part of who I was and still am. I feel like once anyone reaches this type of milestone we should celebrate our hard work but mourn that piece of you that had to die for you to get here. The piece of you that was a tidal wave of emotions that made you cry and was so angry for no reason. The one that couldn’t live without benzos, that was so selfish I forgot about others, I lost so many friends but it never mattered, being high and numb was the only thing that mattered as long as I was high I never felt ashamed. I pushed everyone away because my death would be easier that way and determined that no one loved me anymore. I isolated myself in my illness and addiction I wasn’t a person anymore. I know it’s been said so many times about people with addictions but it is true. I mourn her still, I will still mourn her because she was a lost child digging through a sea a demons drowning in pills never seeing her opportunity to free herself from everything but now I am free.
I looked in the mirror yesterday and I cried for her mourned her loss even through everything and where I am I could still see her reflection. She still lives in there that sad little girl and as much as I wish I could save her but I would never be able to reach her without falling back down the rabbit hole. I want to tell her I’m sorry I won’t be able to save you, but I love you.
I need someone to come and make sense of my pile. The book is actually a trilogy (I don’t know if I would actually call it a trilogy?) I have some written and some a share drive all the parts are there I need it to be put together. Is there anyone who has any help or suggestions on what to do? I’m still terrified to show anyone my book. I get writers block very easily so it is hard to write sometimes.
I’ve always dreamed of being a writer, the first book I ever wrote and still have is a fan fiction of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn (I saw the Disney version and to this day can still repeat most of the lines.), I started and never finished my fan fiction of Fried Green Tomatoes and at just 12 years old decided I wanted to look like Idgie and made my mom take me shopping to buy clothes just like hers (I’ve burned most of the evidence). My life growing up wasn’t great, so I used these books and movies as an escape from the world around me. I think all of it prepared me for the book I am currently writing. This book (which is 6 years and counting) was and still is my escape from everything also my form of therapy. I’ve been through a lot and there are certain parts of my life I am not ready to talk about yet, as it pertains to me but for Lauren it can all happen to her.
My mouth almost goes numb when I say it. It is hard to fathom where I was a year ago compared to where I am today. I don’t have a lot of memories from that day and everything that is a reminder is erased. These are a few of the things I could find. I know that I was popping Halicon and Xanax chasing it with whiskey. I was in a “support group” on Facebook and those ladies were watching my downward spiral. I made several lives in the group one of which was me staring in a shower head and then there was the final curtain call. I was down to the last few pills in the bottle and I went live. I have no idea what I said but I know I ended it and passed out. I don’t know how long I was out for but the ladies in the group freaked out and started blowing my husbands phone up. I remember coming to when my husband came rushing home pissed at the entire situation. I realize now that he wasn’t just angry, he was terrified. If I never went live then I would probably be dead. He picked me up and threw me in the truck and took me back to work with him. I was passed out but the moments I came to were nothing but incoherent screaming. People have a lot of preconceived notions of overdosing. It isn’t always like what you see in the media. You can overdose not throw up, not have your stomach pumped and just go in and out of consciousness for hours. So now it is after 3:00 and we pick our daughter up from school and I’ve managed to slightly stabilize myself (in my mind) to have a really good shouting match with my husband. He sends our daughter outside while I’m screaming and swearing. (I didn’t eat anything that day and I had enough benzos in me to knock out a horse, I’m slightly intoxicated and I’m manic.) I have no idea what I yelled about, but I guarantee you it was nothing but slurred speech, half sentences and swearing lots of swearing. We got into a huge fight and he called my mother and kicked me out. I didn’t know if I was going back inpatient but I didn’t give a shit I just didn’t understand what was happening. The suicide attempt to me wasn’t a big deal it wasn’t my first time and me abusing Benzos also a norm for me. He took my phone and wouldn’t let me have it. I wasn’t allowed on social media or to talk to about it to anyone who wasn’t involved or aware what was going on. I found out later he did this to keep me from going inpatient unless he felt like I needed to. I slept on a mattress in my moms living room for 3 days. The first night I passed out and felt like shit when I woke up. I was so hungover blinking hurt and detoxing was torture. My marriage almost ended and I have forever traumatized my daughter from the ordeal. We forget sometimes that our actions can kill the people around us even if they don’t kill us. This doesn’t mean that I won’t ever get bad again and I won’t deal with suicidal thoughts. It just means that I’m finally at a place where I can get help the right way.
All night they do checks on the patients, every 15 minutes to be exact. It didn’t matter where you were or what you were doing they were going to find you. There is more to that story soon, but now after NO SLEEP they wake us up at 6:30/7:00. We all start to file out and people have made friends and they are all talking to each other and I’m just there. We all go to breakfast (the only plus is the food is good.) and then we are placed in groups. I was placed in the progressive group. This group were for people who had problems but could still function in the everyday world. Then it happened the most horrid retched thing imaginable. We were put in GROUP THERAPY for 8 hours. Yes you read that correctly 8 fucking hours of group therapy. We broke for lunch and dinner we also had small breaks in between but mostly it was GROUP. The first woman in there who claimed to be a “psychologist” explained to us how alcoholism and drug abuse is hereditary and no matter what we do we will probably suffer form of it. Of course someone who has never experienced anything like this has now become more anxious. We are listening to her go on and on telling her all of her families issues (at some point I wondered if she belonged to with us.) They would give us small 5 minute breaks and as soon as the break word break came out of their mouth they would swipe their badge and turn the phones on. It looked like a Black Friday sale everyone jumping to get on the phone. There was a middle aged woman who called everyone in her family and we heard her entire life story. (If you’ve ever seen OITNB she is the Hispanic lady crying on the phone. There are things I don’t care if you are a stranger or not you shouldn’t say in front of other people.) After the second break and another part of her life story the “counselor” came in and left the area to turn the phone on open and stepped back out to talk to someone and I ran over and flipped the button on so I could call my husband. I’d probably been on the phone with him for about 1.5 minutes when the “counselor” came back and said, “No one is supposed to touch that button who turned the damn phones on.” I just want to remind everyone at this point that I am sleep deprived, manic, confused and so fucking pissed off I didn’t care. “I did because this bitch wouldn’t shut the fuck up.” The “counselor” stood back her face turned red, her eyes begin to narrow as she pursed her lips. “We will calm you down. That is your last warning.” Her knuckles kept turning whiter and whiter. “I don’t give a fuck.” I said laughing. You could tell that she was frazzled like she had lost control of the group. So we talked some more, she glared at me the whole time I didn’t pay attention. Next comes lunch and after the candy cart came around. For those of you who aren’t familiar the candy cart is the wonderful nurse/pharm tech that brings around the pills. You know the good stuff that makes 8 hours of group therapy bearable. I went up and the nurse snapped, “We can’t give you anything because you haven’t seen your doctor.” She whipped around pushing the cart down the hallway.
I read via bathroom light the night before when I was unable to sleep that by law I had to see my psychiatrist 24 hours after the 10-13 was issued and according to the paperwork the 10-13 was issued at 9:30 am so I am well over my 24 hours and now I am pissed. I slam my fist on the desk and start yelling, “It’s been over 24 hours where the fuck is my doctor?” The counselor rolls her eyes and motions for the door as soon as I walk out there is another person waiting for me and again they trying to calm me down but all I see is red. “Do we need to calm you down?” Her brows crease and her eyes glaring through me and I decide to get cocky. “You keep fucking threatening me with that but you ain’t bout shit.” As the words slip off my tongue here comes a nurse with a needle in her hand. She grabbed my arm and drug me down by the nurses station the needle still in her hand. It was like waving a gun when robbing a bank. I sit with group that has the “loose girl” in it. I am sitting there while they are coloring still grumbling when I see the nurses station door open. I am inclined to mischief and not learning my lesson from the previous time I walk in the nurses station and sit down to use the phone. (I really wanted to talk to my husband to calm myself down and though I feel like I have expressed this it seems they would not listen.) Then it happened…..I got booty juiced.
I wake up a little later in a room that I’ve never seen before. I was able to sleep a little longer so I wasn’t so pissed. The nurse came in and said, “Are you going to follow rules?” I sleepily nodded and was escorted to a list of small glass offices. I sat my legs shaking furiously when a small Middle Eastern man walks in and introduces himself as the psychologist. I asked as nicely as I could for the psychiatrist and see said, “You have to see me first.” I will save you from the ignorant angry words I said. Finally this smug, douchebag walks in he looks like he is 20 years old and of course he is my psychiatrist who talks to me for like 5 seconds determines they I may not be bipolar but severely depressed. ( There is no way in such a short amount of time he could diagnose me.) He prescribes me Lexapro, Klonopin, and one other medicine to help me sleep. Now the candy cart will be my best friend and I am sent back to my group. I eat dinner finish up and head back to the common area to get ready for bed. I make it back to the room sit on the toilet when someone swings open the shower curtain. ( There were no doors.) “Leave me the fuck alone. I am trying to take a shit in peace dammit.” She gives me a smug look, “We are doing a count do we need to calm you down again.” “Bite me bitch.” I say getting up to wipe. “Are you going to help me out?” She frowns and exits the room. I take a moment and hope in the shower and here she comes again. ” There is no way it’s been 15 fucking minutes already. Leave me the fuck alone.” She stands there staring at me. ” Unless you plan on helping me you need to fucking leave.” She starts to giggle and exits the room. This is my first of a hellish 72 hours.
Imagine this: It is a mild dreary Monday, a large group of random men and women file up stairs to an old creaky courtroom. The courtroom dates back to the early 1900s, the floors are original oak wood and creak with every step, the dark scratched wood pews make a loud unexcused noises every time you try to find a comfortable position. Everyone in the room was tired, cranky and uncomfortably sitting elbow to elbow the air filled with over sprayed cologne and perfume mixed in with the musty smell in the room. In the middle of all of this there is me. I’m wearing an oversized navy blue long sleeve shirt, my jeans that took several jump attempts to button, my gray and green Nike’s with cheetah print checks and my oversized Trader Joe’s bag. I always bring my big bag it keeps my anxiety kit with food and water.
Anxiety kit: Headphones, pens, word search and coloring book, something to read, note pad and rubber bands to tie in knots to distract myself.
The judge started with this quote “I consider trial by jury as the only anchor ever yet imagined by man, by which a government can be held to the principles of its constitution.” –Thomas Jefferson. It was such an amazing and profound quote that what happens next is only something I can accomplish. They took roll and ask if any names were missed and I had to stand up and say mine. I am an extremely awkward person any type of social interaction makes my anxiety soar through the roof. They called roll again and still my name was absent with one other woman. The judge asked me to approach the bench and as I am walking I don’t notice the rise in the floor and it happened. I tripped on the way up trying gracefully to catch myself I latch on the to bench in front of the judge and watched her coffee cup dance across and with my luck not flipping over. I leaned across the bench like I was important until she cleared her throat. She asked for my full name again then said, “It’s listed here you have a medical excuse.” I stood perplexed and said, “I’m not sick but if that’s the case I can go.” She glared at me for a moment and said, “You are already here so let’s just continue on.” I could hear the giggles as I turned around my face red and hot. So now we sit and listen to cases being called much of it with back and forth to the judge my foot shaking faster and faster. My phone is downstairs and as soon as they call us to break I ran down the steps turn my phone, I get a massive amount of dings and then I saw it my bank account was overdrawn. Not a little overdrawn $161.42 to be exact. I needed to call the bank but the 15 minute breaks weren’t enough to get correct information. I did the best I could while we were at lunch but still not completely successful. The last half of my day all I could think about was my bank account so I decided to draw. I could feel myself shaking so I did this on my hand. I finally got out of there and got everything straightened out but as always never a dull moment.
I wish I could talk about everyone who was fucked over by the media for their illness, addictions and suicides but it would be a whole book.
If you are an everyday person like me getting diagnosed with an illness is just that a diagnosis. No one is reporting my suicide attempts, addiction issues, the medication I am on and it is because I am just a normal everyday person. Of course my immediate family and friends are concerned but it doesn’t make the front page of magazines or posted on all the social media outlets with tacky and smutty titles, however if you are a celebrity that changes and it is sad that so many of them hide their illness or addiction for that reason and that our society is so desensitized they lack all forms of empathy. The only thing people see is green. That dollar sign for who gets the scoop from a close family member, the autopsy report, pictures of their death but the media doesn’t grieve the loss of someone who had an impact on the world, the same people whose very words may have saved your life. We don’t see that we won’t remember them for their accomplishments or the impact they had on us. We will remember them for every controversial thing they’ve ever done all indiscretions made public. We do it for the views right? to get a retweet? for more followers? We’ve made that our priority instead of seeing this happening and demanding a change. We need our government to do more for us, we need as a society to stop desensitizing death, mental health, and addiction. I know we can’t save anyone, but instead of finding the negatives in their lives let us find the positives the amazing accomplishments but most importantly let us make mental health an open ended conversation. We need to be more comfortable with who we are and the media (social) needs to back the fuck off. Celebrities are still humans and I think as a society we’ve forgot this too. Let’s work on bringing up mental health in a more positive light.
They gave me my papers and told me I had to be there by 7:30. I went to SummitRidge in Lawrenceville, Ga, don’t go to Summit for ANY REASON!!! My husband and daughter walked me in as far as they could go, I handed my papers in and said goodbyes. The big wooden doors beeped as they swiped their badges and I was quickly ushered in. My world was crushed and I was still so confused and hurt by what was going on. They brought me into a room with 4 or 5 other people and I sat with my bag and my stuff shaking and crying because no one would tell me what was going on. I remember I love Lucy in captions in the waiting area. About 9:30 or so it was finally my turn. This small little bald white man who was extremely grumpy and unfriendly started asking me about my insurance and financial questions and I was a bitch and told him all I wanted to do was go home and he said, “You will but not for 72 hours.” He smirked and I called him a bastard. “If you can’t control yourself we will take care of it for you.” He meant booty juiced. I’ve become very familiar with booty juice. For those of you who don’t know, booty juice is when they take a shot of thioridazine or haldol and if the nurse is a bitch it is a bit of both and jam it in your ass to calm you down. So now it is after 10:30 when he finishes and I am ushered through more beeping wooden doors to a larger waiting room. This is when I met the on staff doctor. While I waited for my turn holding my stuff and more papers, a few people “got loose.” as the nurses called it. There was a woman there I don’t remember her name but she walked around and had touch everything and kept moaning something I couldn’t understand. I don’t think she could actually talk to you and if you went near her she would freak out and go the other way. In the process of her “getting loose.” her shorts dropped down and she was walking shorts around her ankles and the nurses were laughing. We are now after 11 pm and I am tired, pissed off, and still confused none of it felt real. When I walked in to the room to see him (there was no nurse or any woman in the room btw.) The nurses took my stuff and started rumbling through it. When I walked into the room the dr. who was an asshole as well asked me my name and birth date then says “squat and cough.” I’ve seen this on movies but it is real. So I did what he said, even though I was extremely uncomfortable and expressed this more than once. He said pull out from under your bra to make sure there is nothing hidden. I am still extremely uncomfortable as he takes my temperature and blood pressure asked about tuberculosis (that is a common problem) then sends me back out with no more conversation. Now it is close to midnight and I finally was placed in “a bed” They give you exactly 1 sheet, 1, pillow, 1 blanket a wash cloth and a towel. They also give you a small piece of soap, 1 bottle of shampoo and conditioner then 1 toothbrush and a small thing of toothpaste. You could not get another towel or washcloth until you turned in the previous pairs. I was handed all of this with my bag that was all out of whack and sent me to my room. It was separated into three separate wings, the men, the women, and then the teens. We had one common area to share. My roommate was already sleeping (she kept the room at 80 degrees and there was no negotiating with her. She had been there for almost 3 weeks.) So I wrapped my blanket around me and went out to the common area and sat on the couch crying. The nurse who was French…I think was very harsh and told me to go to bed or they would make sure my doctor knew and I would stay longer. I didn’t even know who my doctor was no one told me. I was sent back to fill “a bed” and as I am walking she reminds me that I am property of the state so now I try and sleep but it starts to get better…….