The Night I Tried to Kill Myself

I don’t quite know how to put this experience into words. I haven’t written for some time again, due to feelings of inadequacy, depression, and general brain fog. I can’t seem to form coherent sentences as quickly as I used to, nor can I focus for long periods of time on something that I have a deep love for.

Thursday, 10.25.18 I remember walking into the outpatient center I attend for a therapy session. I remember the feelings of utter hopelessness attending with me, like a sack lunch I was carrying to school. I had made the decision to give up. I was tired of fighting, I was tired of trying to fight, and I was tired of the only option being fighting. I was tired of fighting myself, I was tired of, for the millionth time in my mental health career, coming off of medication, and I was tired of hearing I needed medication to thrive.

I was taking 10 milligrams of Abilify and 10 milligrams of Trintellix and I couldn’t find the energy to finish homework, or get out of bed, and I didn’t have the luxury of feeling any emotion at all: happiness, sadness, inquisitiveness, passion–nothing. And so I did what I always do: stopped the medication.

This usually happens without consequence. For the most part, I’ll stop cold turkey after a couple of months, struggle through a few physical withdrawal symptoms, and get on with my lifestyle. The last time I stopped these two meds, I regained my energy quickly, breezed through four classes, and managed happiness until the opinions of those I care about convinced me to try the medication again.

So I tried again, For maybe two and a half weeks. Then I stopped. I stopped and I noticed my energy did not come back. My mood was stable until it wasn’t. It plummeted. I focused a lot on what was wrong with me, the disappointment of my relationship ending (yes, I’m still stuck on that), and the worries of the future regarding my education, where I’m going to live after December, and the simple fact that I struggle taking care of myself. Those are the surface issues. There are deeper issues I don’t think I’m in touch with yet.

I’ve struggled with depression since I was ten years old. A low mood was nothing new to me, in fact I welcomed it because the darkness was comforting. It was an old friend, a sinister reminder that life is suffering and suffering reminds us that we’re alive. I was thankful for this friend to return because on the medication I didn’t feel alive.

I started planning fun things to do to keep me from falling further: A concert, an overnight trip to San Francisco, Halloween plans and costumes. I got excited: the week of the 21st would be marvelous.

But I started separating from myself.¬† I don’t remember when, and I don’t remember how, but part of me blacked out. I know I was around and talking to people because I went to work, had laughs, made plans. I don’t remember much of it, but I know I was there.

By Thursday, the 25th, I was moving slowly, not comprehending where I was, no hope or vision for the future, and I’d even lost interest in Halloween, my favorite holiday. I confessed to the therapist that I didn’t have energy to care much about my life, nor could I answer her questions. I didn’t tell her I’d made a plan to (somehow) kill myself after Halloween. It wasn’t fully developed yet, an undercooked chicken in the oven.

I don’t remember much about the session other than the ending: a mindful meditation seeking to locate my inner child. I remember a lot of pain resurfacing, so deep and profound I had never felt it before, and I snapped. I was gone. She asked me how I felt, and I told her dissociated, separated from myself. I remember that. She made me do some grounding activities to bring me back into my body. I don’t think they worked.
That night I went to a concert. It put me in a seemingly better mood.

Friday and Saturday I spent the days in San Francisco at the Academy of Sciences, Golden Gate Park, Six Flags, and around town. Saturday evening, on the drive back, a sinister part of me reminded me of my plan.

I’m not a stranger to hearing voices. I don’t hear them every day, and I haven’t had a bad episode in a while, not since my last hospitalization last year, but this time was different. This time I heard nothing external, and everything internal.

We all have an inner voice that reads to us, thinks for us, and we are in control of that voice, we dictate it. I’m dictating it now as I read back what I wrote, and as I write. But what I listened to that Saturday evening was not of my own doing. A different voice, a male voice, one inside of my head that I had no control of, which directly told me I needed to kill myself. He instructed me to open the door of the car and jump out in traffic–on the highway–and end it. He addressed me as “you” and I addressed me as “I”. That’s the only difference I can pinpoint right now. When I had a thought of my own, I said to myself “I need to calm down”. When I didn’t, he said “you need to do this. There’s no reason for you to live, you don’t deserve life.”

Was this a demonic entity interfering with my thoughts? I didn’t know. I sat paralyzed in the rental car my Ex drove, crying consistently for an hour and a half. The torment wouldn’t stop. “You don’t deserve to live. There’s nothing good about you. Jump out of the car. End it. When you get home, kill yourself. Hang yourself in the closet, no one will even find you.”

I had plans that evening with another friend, so I did not act on those commands. I did, however, drink quite a bit of whiskey and wander around the downtown city. When I got home, I drank more whiskey and fell asleep.

In the morning I awoke instantly crying. The day was Sunday, 10.28.18. I turned on Breaking Bad: I’ve never seen it before. I don’t remember much of the episodes because my head was so loud: “hang yourself in the closet. Take a knife, slit your wrists. You will never amount to anything. You don’t deserve to be on this earth, you don’t contribute to anything.” I joined in: “I can’t write anymore. I can’t enjoy things anymore. I don’t see this getting any better”.

It was 6pm that night when I finally stood up and searched my apartment for something, anything to hang myself with. I didn’t feel in control of my body, I was just going along with the motions.

“Fill up the tub, get in the water, slit your wrists.”

I grabbed a kitchen knife from the drawer and filled up the tub. I remember this part more clearly than other parts because my heart was beating out of my chest, my hands were clammy, and I couldn’t get a grip on myself, I felt like I was losing myself to someone else.

I got in the water with my clothes on and fought the noise in my head. I tried to give myself reasons to live–family, my cat, work–but it was always overpowered by that other voice. I spent a half an hour sawing at my wrists with a dull blade that could barely cut a tomato. I pressed as hard as I could and my skin barely broke. Eventually, I threw the knife. I remember a lot of crying and banging my head on the wall and hitting myself. The noise wouldn’t stop. I ripped out the string from my leggings I had on and wrapped it around my neck and pulled and pulled and pulled. Thinking back on it, I would probably pass out before I die, given my hands are the one pulling the strings, but in the moment I just needed to cause some sort of harm to myself. I kept trying the knife in between strangling myself and I sent one text message that I don’t remember.

It was a couple hours before I stopped. My neck was sore and I had stopped crying, but I wasn’t back in my body yet. The water was cold and I heard the front door open and footsteps running in.

We spent a couple hours talking, and I was gone completely. I don’t remember an ounce of the conversation. I remember seeing through my eyes my body stand up and go for the knife, go for the string, and my ex preventing me from doing so. I remember telling him I didn’t want to traumatize him.

There’s a block on my memory of the conversation, what I said, what he said. I remember being on the couch wrapped in blankets, soaking wet, distraught, eating pizza. I didn’t remember the last time I had food. It couldn’t have been too long. I took a Seroquel. I only had three or four left. It’s a shame I didn’t have a full bottle, or I would have just swallowed them all and called it a night.

The next day I didn’t awake until 1pm. I could barely move, my mind was paralyzingly loud, and I turned on more Breaking Bad. The urge to die was so strong. People took turns watching after me, texting me, calling me. I refused to let anyone call 911. The hospital is not a place to be when you’re in a crisis.

Today is Halloween. My head isn’t loud. I came back into my body and have trouble remembering what the depression felt like because I feel I wasn’t the one to feel it–this entity within me, whether it’s paranormal or just a fractured part of my self, is hell bent on destroying me.¬† I haven’t experienced a dissociative experience so destructive since high school.

Am I still depressed? I think. Mildly. Or it’s so severe that I’m incapable of comprehending the severity of it.

I didn’t learn to love life from this attempt. I didn’t learn to appreciate the little things or find new meaning or purpose. I still feel lost and confused. A hospital visit isn’t going to change that. What I did learn is that I’m more committed than ever to never taking psychiatric medication again in my life. After 7 years of being a guinea pig, I’m done.

My outpatient group counselor asked me why I despised medication so much. I told her it’s poison. She asked in what way. I told everyone in that room that long term treatment results in heart issues, liver issues, physical ailments that permanently scar your internal body and shorten your life span.

She said okay,  well, then would you rather kill yourself now and not have a life to live, or have some little problems a little later?

I said that was a dumb question, and that heart arrhythmia’s aren’t little problems. I said I’d rather kill myself than subject my body to synthetic chemicals.

And through this experience, if it’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the only two ways I will die is by my own hand or nature’s hand. I will not slowly die at the hands of greedy monsters making a profit off my death. If anyone is going to shorten my life span, it’s going to be me.

Should 911 have been called on me? Probably. I’m worried what I will do after Halloween–my original plan–and where my mindset will go. I’m worried I won’t be able to receive the support people are offering because I don’t know how. I’m convinced there is nothing left for me and that the only thing keeping me alive right now is fear of the unknown and a low threshold for pain. I’m worried this depression will slide past, unnoticed, and sky rocket into something more. I’m worried I’m not going to find a purpose again, that I’m not going to find a reason to live. I’m worried I’ll never feel passionate about anything again, or optimistic. I’m worried I’m shutting down, like the last stages of liver cancer. I’m worried I’ll pass as functional and be in misery for the rest of my life, however short or long that is. I’m worried someone will convince me to go back on medication. I’m worried that the only thought in my head right now is that I give up.

I’m worried that, recently, every time someone offers their help, my response now is “I don’t want it.”

Hunted On Halloween

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Halloween plans anyone? What did you all do? Do you celebrate the holiday? Do you believe in ghosts and spirits and demons and angels? How many “sexy cat” costumes were there in your town?

I went to California’s Great America Halloween Haunt.If you don’t know, Great America is an amusement park. They had haunted mazes and skits and theater shows and rides going with zombies roaming free.

I bought the passes for my boyfriend and I that gave us extra access to five extra scenes. They were very interesting. I’ll get to that in a minute.

First let me say fuck google. The GPS took us to the employee parking with hundreds of other people also misled by their GPS. The cars lined up all four ways down the street for a few miles. My boyfriend got the idea to cut through a huge parking lot behind a building called “Palo Alto Networks” and we beat a good hour and a half of waiting in traffic.

We had to wait in another line to get the quick passes. They allow us to go to the front of the line to all the mazes, along with experiencing the extra scenes. While we waited, people with nothing better to do than be lazy kept cutting through the line with their pathetic “excuse me’s”, rather than take an extra two seconds and walk around. It was okay at first.

Until the sheep came.

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By sheep I mean the idiots who see one person cut through the line, so they push their family of twenty through too, all muttering “excuse me”. The drunk woman behind me was getting annoyed. I was getting annoyed. My boyfriend was getting annoyed. The guys behind us were also annoyed.

It’s very simple. You see a line, walk around. For someone like me who is already getting worn out from all the of flashing lights, the voices, the people, and the sheer volume of noise around the park, I got easily confused and overstimulated by all the people cutting through the line.

While waiting for one woman to stop arguing with the workers and holding up the line in front, another guy tried stepping in front of my boyfriend and me. I stepped in front of him, and he tried going behind me. The man behind me stepped closer to me and shouted at the guy to “go around! go the FUCK around! Go around, you rude motherfuckers!” and I joined him in the shouting. Why? Because behind that one guy was another three families of people getting ready to push through the line, and I was sick of being bumped and touched.

#TeamworkMotherfucker 

After a half an hour of waiting in that line, all because of that one fucking woman, we got our passes and started the night.

london-ripperIn one of the mazes there were different actors portraying people in history, usually murderers. I jumped a mile in the air at the man in the corner with the top hat and the trench coat standing next to the woman laying with her throat cut: Jack The Ripper. I started laughing and told my boyfriend they should have him following people around. Jack the Ripper heard me, hopped down from his stage and came after me, running with me, and I ducked as he growled in my ear. If you all didn’t know, I’m a huge Jack The Ripper enthusiast. I’ve read and watched about as much as a person could on the guy.

I’m a huge serial killer enthusiast. It’s normal and not disturbing at all.

I got followed by another woman with a huge gash in her forehead, smiling, and she followed me all the way to the end of one of the mazes. I got followed by another short woman playing a little girl with pigtails and she didn’t just walk after me, she ran after me and my boyfriend and he was saying “oh shit, oh shit!” so I squeezed past him because she was really close to me and it was creepy as fuck. I made him get chased by her.

There were several other mazes and funny experiences, but I can’t remember everything.

In the extra scenes, well, let’s just say shit got weird.

ht_hoarder_home_06_jef_150415_4x3_992The first one we entered was called “Hoarder House”. It was a man with a southern accent in a house full of junk and a bunch of (fake) cats. He came up and down the line and called one man “Justin Beaver” and the girl next to him Selena Gomez. He came to me, because I was laughing my ass off, and got right in my face and said “and what’s your name, scaredy cat?”

I said I wasn’t scared. He asked my name again and I told him. He told me to come stand in front of everyone and I said shit and my boyfriend laughed. The guy made me hold a rubber Halloween hairless cat with a missing eye, and he named the cat after me. He told the group that if they didn’t find two keys in the mess of litter boxes around, that he would skin the girl he called Selena Gomez, and poke my eye out. He was great.

The group found the keys. I have both of my eyes and Asian Selena Gomez still has her skin.

We went to another scene called “Dominated”.

Yes, it’s exactly what you think. We could hear the paddles through the wall.

We get in the room and this woman in this sexy outfit has chains hanging everywhere and whips hanging from her hips. She’s hilarious. She handcuffs us in twos, and we have to weave through the chain mazes with our partner. My boyfriend and I weaved through the quickest and she picked on us mostly, saying we’d been handcuffed together before. We all laughed because, let’s face it, she’s not wrong.

At the end, we get paddled.

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I don’t know what to think about that.

In another scene we get shoved in a box with one other person, and air compresses sheets against us, like the walls are closing in. When we step out the guy with the deep voice stares blankly, gestures towards the door and says simply “that is all”. Our entire group cracks up.

Another scene a man gets strangled and we have to run from a woman on the loose.

Another sorority scene, Bloody Mary crawls across the walls at us and right when I tried escaping she crouched on the counter, eye level with me, blood dripping everywhere, and stared into my soul.

I got followed a lot. There’s something about me that guys in costume and women with blood on their face get attracted to. I was hunted by these people the entire night.

I got home and passed out immediately. The level of sensory overload was too damn high. But it sure did beat not being scared. I love being scared. Halloween is the greatest holiday I do declare.

Now, let me get my ass out of the library before they kick me out. Be safe people.