Woman, Interrupted

Three years ago today my husband realized I was planning to kill myself.

Not that I was thinking about it, not that I was having ideations, but that I had a plan. I was going to do it the next night. I had refilled all of my medications that weekend and had done my research to see if what I had on hand would be enough to do the job. From what I could gather it would. I was going to take a full months supply of my blood thinner (240mg of warfarin) as well, just to be sure. I figured if the various antidepressants, anti-anxiety medications, and muscle relaxers I was prescribed didn't stop my heart or my breathing like I hoped then I could maybe bleed out if no one found me in time. I was going to take everything right after my husband left for work (around 10pm at that time) and just go to sleep and not wake up. I figured my kids wouldn't wake up if I didn't get up with the alarm clock and my husband would find me when he got home. I thought it would be traumatic for everyone at first but they would all be better off once I was gone and they were done grieving.

I'm still not sure exactly what gave me away, I don't know how he knew that my mood that day was hiding something so much darker than it usually was. I still don't want to ask. I guess I'm just thankful he knows me well enough to see when I need help. We got a friend to watch the kids and he took me to the local emergency room. It was a small but efficient ER that would eventually transfer me to an official psychiatric hospital. While I was at the ER I had to remove all of my own clothes and wear a special blue gown that didn't have any snaps or cords and designated me as a suicide risk. There was an armed guard posted by my door. It was a very strange experience when I look back on it now but at the time I had too much going on in my head to do anything but comply and cry. I wanted help and didn't all at the same time. I didn't actually want the people close to me to hurt but I also didn't want to live with the pain anymore.

After several hours at the emergency room I was transferred to the Ohio Hospital for Psychiatry in   the middle of the night by ambulance. The EMT in the back with me was an extremely sweet country boy type and he talked to me for the whole ride. Some of it was about why I was there, some of it was about interests, he just kept me distracted and calm. By the time I made it to my home for the next three days, whether I liked it or not, I was calming down some, but also gut stricken by what I had almost done. I would cry for the better part of the next twelve hours.

Shortly after arriving and getting checked in I started my period. From what I've read it's normally hard to get a legitimate, documented diagnosis of PMDD (premenstrual dysphoric disorder) but in my case it was one of the first things written down when I talked to the psychiatrist the next morning. I had been telling both my gynecologist and my primary care doctor for probably two years something was wrong and it was getting worse. They just threw new medicines at me and told me to exercise more, it would reduce the cramps. The cramps were not my concern, I had been having them for twenty years at that point, I knew how to handle them. My concerns were the irrational behavior, the violent thoughts about myself and others, the absolute hopelessness that occurred several days every single month. I was given sertraline for depression and anxiety and my gynecologist said that should be enough to help. It wasn't. I was switched to venlafaxine and agreed to getting a Mirena IUD after begging for an ablation so I could maybe not nearly bleed to death every month. Blood thinners and a naturally heavy period was wrecking my body and I couldn't replace the blood or iron fast enough before another one.

While I was in the hospital I was also diagnosed with major depressive disorder, general anxiety disorder, post traumatic stress disorder, dysmorphia, and I think that's all. I can't remember exactly. When I arrived at the hospital I was taking venlafaxine, amitryptyline, clonazepam,  a muscle relaxer, a headache medicine with a barbiturate in it, an IBS medication, and a few other things. I was over-medicated. Several of the things I was taking had the potential for very serious interactions. I feel like this largely contributed to me ending up in that hospital. They dropped and changed several of the medicines while I was there and the weekend after I left I went off all of them except the clonazepam, cold turkey. I only took the clonazepam when I started having a panic attack instead of on a schedule and within a few months I wasn't taking it at all.

I think back to my short stay at OHP and at first I was terrified but it turned out to be a turning point in my life. Under the circumstances it was the best thing that could have happened. I met some very kind people there, both the staff and fellow patients. I saw that mental illness has no preference and does not discriminate, it doesn't care the color of your skin or how much money you make. I was in the ward for people who weren't violent. We were all there for depression, anxiety, suicide attempts, and stress related breakdowns.

After I finally emerged from my room the first morning I was still crying or trying to hold it back. There was a sweet boy of about 18 or 19 that I just met who hugged me and told me I could cry on his shoulder. I later found out in group therapy he was there because he had a nervous breakdown after finding out his girlfriend was pregnant and it might not be his. He tried to commit suicide by threatening police with a gun in an effort to get them to shoot him so he wouldn't have to do it himself. It was so hard to look at that sweet boy and imagine him doing something like that, but I guess that's just another example of never knowing what's going on in someone else's head or heart. There was a woman who's son had been murdered a year or so prior who ran out into traffic trying to get hit by a car. She had no coping mechanisms for the all the tragedy that life had handed her. She had been at the hospital for while at this point and I'm sure she was probably there for a while after I left. One afternoon she lost it all over again and they had to confine her to her room. She tried to kick the door down and when that didn't work she threw her whole body at the door until she wore herself out or they gave her a sedative, I don't remember which I just remember she finally quieted down. There was a friendly schizophrenic man who was there because his medication wasn't working and the voices were telling him some pretty scary shit. They seemed to have got him pretty well adjusted at the hospital but he was staying for a while, just in case. There were many people there with bandaged wrists and every time they told their stories it absolutely broke my heart. My second room mate was a sweet, quiet college girl who basically stopped eating and had a nervous breakdown because she put too much pressure on herself at school. Anytime we weren't at meals or group she could be found on her bed surrounded by books still not taking the break she so obviously needed.

Knowing these people, although briefly, changed me. The experience changed me. Even in their dark times the people were a light for me. I wanted to help, but had no idea how. I'm still not sure how but I'm still trying to find a way. When I started seeing things about the Semicolon Project a little more than a year ago I really liked the idea. I finally got my semicolon tattoo a few weeks ago. It means a lot to me. It's a reminder to stop before I do something I can't take back. It's my message to other people who are struggling that I'm a safe person to talk to, I can relate, I can try to help. It's a reminder to document and share my experiences so that I hopefully I can let other people know they aren't alone, even if only one other person takes comfort from it it's worth it to try.