In the summer of my middle school to high school transition, I basically hit a wall. I had been going to therapy since the age of six, but I never really talked, so I had kept all of my feelings inside. That pretty much led to depression, and I attempted suicide that summer. My mother and step-father drove me to the hospital, where I had to drink disgusting charcoal to soak up the extra Tylenol I had ingested a few hours before. I spent a week at a juvenile psychiatric hospital, and went home, just to keep it all in again and get even more depressed. I was diagnosed with Major Depression, and I had no idea that I was also Bipolar, and that's why my moods were so erratic (my mother would always tell me that she felt like she was "walking on eggshells" around me. Now I know that she felt like that partly because of our tumultuous relationship, and partly because of my Bipolar Disorder rearing it's ugly head.)
The next thirteen years (that's right, thirteen) were filled with many more suicide attempts (repeated massive overdoses and I shot myself in the chest in 2004 as well), at least a dozen hospitalizations (in adult psychiatric facilites), and trying a multitude of medications that usually didn't work. I also developed the horrifying self-injurous habit of cutting (which I did from age 20 to age 26, and for the past seven years have never done it again!) Somehow, probably because of my strong academic background, I graduated from Community College, and, feeling ambitious and happy (during some of my hypo-manic times), I decided to go to nursing school, and failed three separate times. I have always wanted to be a nurse because I absolutely love, love, love medical things and helping people, and wanted to be a nurse so badly, but just couldn't ever do it. I truly wish I could handle it, but have come to realize that it's just not something I can do. Too rigorous. Too many crazy and overnight hours. Not good for my Bipolar.
In 2004, I was living on my own and working full-time as a Medical Assistant, but I couldn't keep it up, so I ended up getting really depressed, and shot myself in the chest. I lived, but lost my apartment and job, and my family would not let me live with them, so I had to move into a behavioral residential home because I had nowhere else to live. I hated it there, but what else could I do?Working was too overwhelming for me, and I needed to do that to have an apartment of my own. And I just couldn't do any of it. I was just so unbelievably sick, and didn't know how to get well, nor did I really care to. I lived there for two years, and was so sick that I tried, in June of 2006, to kill myself again. This time I went to a motel, turned on the tv, and swallowed 150 Tylenol PM. I survived through the night, vomiting the entire time, and was completely out of it when I went to return the room key to the manager the next morning, that she asked me if I was on drugs. I said that I wasn't, but she was really freaked out, and she saw a police car on the other side of the street and called him over. I was highly agitated and very upset, but no one knew what I had done. The police officer took me to the hospital, where I remained in Intensive Care for about a week. But, I survived that one too. I was so not happy with that. I was sent to another psychiatric hospital (one I had been in many times) and with nothing to live for, and I literally heard God speak to me! Seriously. I did. He said "You're worth it to me and I love you"! Well, that sealed the deal. I knew that I would be okay! I got out of the hospital, vowing never to return, got two part-time jobs, moved out of the residential house, and rented a room in a house owned by someone I had known in middle school! I knew I was finally getting better :)
No comments:
Post a Comment