It was this time last year, on a Tuesday night, I drunkenly stood on the front step of my house smoking a cigarette staring at a list of suicide hotline numbers. I wanted to dial for help, but I also didn't know what I would say to them. "Hey, my name is Katie. I don't know why today is different than any other, but I am pretty certain I am over being alive. Any suggestions?"
I chose one of the many numbers listed at random and waited until what sounded like a middle-aged white woman picked up on the other line. She started asking me questions, rather aggressively. It seemed like she just wanted to hear me say the words, "I am going to kill myself" so that she could move forward with dispatching a police officer to my home. Before I even started to express what I was feeling, I very quickly started backtracking to avoid it going any further. "No. No. I guess, I guess I'm just depressed. I am not going to kill myself. Thank you for your time." and I hung up the phone. Fairly certain I convinced her I would be okay, but definitely not convincing myself.
The thing about the depression this time, unlike I had ever felt it before, was that I didn't think about whether or not I wanted to kill myself. I didn't think about who it would effect or what I would be missing. It wasn't a decision to be made, it was more or less the accepted end game for me. That night I took six Xanax and six Tramadol. I knew it wouldn't kill me. It was merely an exercise for what I would eventually do to turn it all off for good.
When I woke up the following morning, hungover and nauseous from the cocktail of drugs the night before, I made the decision to burn it all down. I knew come Thursday morning I would either be dead, or I would absolutely have to go to the hospital. Because I was scraping at the bottom of something I could not get myself back from on my own. I knew this. It was time for fight or flight. And I frankly didn't care which one it was, as long as something broke. But I had one more day to fuck everything up before it ended, whichever way the end would present itself.
I called off work shortly after Ryan had left for the day, drove to CVS and bought 3 bottles of champagne. I drank alone on the couch all afternoon until I passed out for what I assume was the rest of the night. I don't remember that day. The only memories I have of that day are through cryptic tweets and Instagram pictures alluding to me celebrating the end of everything.
I woke up on Thursday morning. Alive. Very much alive. And very much at the mercy of my deepest depression screaming in my face that the previous day had changed nothing, and it was time to make my move. I didn't call off work. I didn't call my family. I didn't do anything but get into my car and drive to urgent care. When I approached the counter, I felt a lump form in the back of my throat, and my feet cement themselves to the ground in front of the charge nurse before me. "I want to kill myself."
I was expecting alarms to go off. Men in white coats jumping into the waiting room with nets to bring me down, and tie me up to keep me from myself. Instead everyone was eerily calm about it. "Okay, ma'am. If you could just take a seat, the doctor will see you shortly."
I don't remember what time it was when I first got to the hospital. I don't remember if it was day time, light out, dark out. They brought me from urgent care to a separate hospital for a psych evaluation in an ambulance. I laid strapped down on a stretcher in an ER hallway for hours waiting to find out what they were going to do with me. I didn't know what time it was, where I was, or when I would be outside again. I didn't look at a phone. I didn't look at a clock. I laid on my back, staring up at the florescent lights, suspended in time, knowing only that I wasn't going to die. And that alone was progress.
No comments:
Post a Comment