This will be my first post here. Hello.
A couple years ago I attempted to overdose on sleeping pills. I was on anti-depressants that I had been taking irregularly because I had just moved into a new, very tiny, apartment with my new girlfriend. We had been together for a little under a year. In addition to anti-depressants I had some perscription sleep meds, and one night after weeks and weeks of worsening depression, I decided I would take them all.
I sat on the bathroom floor for an hour, and just stared at the walls. After that I went outside and stared at the sky for a while, before going back inside and swallowing a handful of 12 pills. I stared at myself in the mirror for about an hour after that, and swallowed 3 more.
I went and knelt by my sleeping girlfriend, and cried against her hand, and softly said what I thought was my goodbye. Thinking that this was it, that I had done it, I became rather calm, and kissed her forehead, and sat myself on the floor in the darkness to carry out the rest of my plan, before going to wander out to sleep in the street, because I didn’t want her to wake up next to my corpse.
For the next 5 hours, I popped another pill every twenty or thirty minutes, and thought of something I would miss, or regretted not doing.
Never see another sunries…whatever, don’t like them anyway. Never went kayaking…why would I ever want to go fucking kayaking? Never got to skydive? Probably wouldn’t have enjoyed that too much either. The list goes on an on and as far as I can remember, nothing, not one thing made me sad.
Until I thought: I’ll never read another good book. I’ll never get to turn another page. I’ll never know the satisfaction of finishing a good story again.
And then I began to cry again.
I love reading, and writing, as you may have noticed, and I never get to do it anymore, I just don’t have the energy to make the time for myself. I work, and I drink, and I sleep. And I hate it, but I feel like I hate everything else so much more. I love to read, but I never get to, because I can’t read at home, people demand my attention. Of course, I can’t read at work. I can’t read at the bar, hell why didn’t I just stay at home if I was going to bring a book there? I’d maybe go somewhere else, to a coffee shop or something, but I’m scared to go anywhere, to talk to anyone, to be anywhere strange. The familiar is uncomfortable and the unfamiliar is terrifying.
In the end, I suppose I took too many at once. The first handful capsules all dissolved at once and my stupid body went all survival-mode on me. About 7 or 8 hours after deciding to go through with it, I was clutching my stomach almost screaming in pain and spewing bright orange into the toilet. That lasted for, oh, let’s see…I think about 10 hours. I won’t be trying that again.
I’ll never forget counting out pills and trying to think of reasons to live.
Funny thing is, I don’t regret it.
But I am glad I got to read that book.
7 comments
Yeah I love reading too; but cuz of my depression and stuff I hardly ever get to read, or more truthfully I hardly ever feel in the mood for reading. But I started reading again late last month and just finished His Dark Materials; and when the time comes to opt out I think I too will miss the simple pleasure of reading a really good book, isn’t that silly. Take care of yourself. =)
Reminds me of my own story. I tried to commit suicide as well, 3 years ago. I ve never told anyone. I survived, had taken lots of pills with alcohol, i was shaking and vomiting and my heart was beating very fast all night, i thought i was going to die. I had nobody, i still have nobody. I still feel useless and not worthy, just not good enough. I dont know if im glad i survived, i feel guilty thinking about how my family would have felt if i didnt. I feel guilty for a lot of things lately. Above all, I feel guilty for being me.
The pill thing….I know all about! 7 years ago, I tried pretty much the same thing, just with a lot more pills. Drs pumped more than 10,000 mg of medicine from my stomach. Anyway, my point, I know the “i’ll never do that again feeling”. The burning in my stomach that lasted about 24 hrs and the nausea combined almost killed me itself. The shoved tubes down my nose into my stomach while I was awake….the absolute worse feeling ever, and I was strapped down for 24 hours because they felt I was insane. So no…..I definatley wouldn’t do it again….I still got a few books left to read myself!
I know my life will never really be what I hoped for or expected. The hurt catches up with me every few weeks and I get overly sad about it. Reading has been a great escape for me. It gives me an outlet for emotions that otherwise have none. I feel a sense of accomplishment that I would not get elsewhere when I finish a real classic. I would not choose to live if I had to stop reading.
Just felt like sharing for once.
May you finish many more books.
you say you dont regret ODing. the thoughts of what your life was/is racing through your mind. (ok, well maybe not “yours”) but thats kind of what ran through my mind when i ODed. Passed out in the bathroom only to wake up to clutch my stomach and spewing in the toilet once again. i did that for four days then like starved the next two or three because i wasnt used to eating anymore. but after a while when the pain was the worst i felt the most peace. i didnt think of anything really except the whole “survival-mode” aspect kick-in. life wasnt really there, i mean it was, but it wasnt at the same time. like i had all the time but it didnt go by like i had so much time though. i loved having that feeling. my point is that i dont regret doing any of it in any way. counting the pills that didnt work… the people and things that rushed through my mind was gone after a while and it was nice feeling to have. and it has been the only other thing i have longed for besides the feeling of being loved. it was sort of the same feeling but way different
It really is a good story.
I’m glad I didn’t have to get my stomach pumped, though in retrospect I might have needed it, I’ve been having digestive problems since, and I didn’t make the connection until writing my post.
I already feel like everyone looks at me funny. Like there’s something wrong with me, like they’re better than me, like any moment I might do something crazy. Funny thing is, sometimes I feel like I want to do something crazy just to wipe that look off of their face. Make them take a look at something they don’t want to admit exists.
It was bad enough when I was placed in a mental health facility back in high school. I knew all my teachers were watching, waiting for me to explode again. It was so bad they decided to send me to another school.
Anyway, I’m just rambling here. Writing is one of the very few things I take joy in. And when I’m really productive, it’s great, but I get into slumps, and I hate my work, and I’m afraid what I’ll think of myself after I write a piece.
Ramble ramble.
There are periods where I’m okay. Not happy, but okay. Where I can tolerate going through the days. But I’m always running from the shadow that brings me back to this place in my head, where it’s all so useless. Because even when I’m okay I know I’ll be back in that place soon. And it just adds to the pain. Like a man underwater who occasionally finds pockets of air, but the surface will be impossible to reach from here. Each breathe you take feels good, but is soured by the knowledge that it won’t last forever, and that escape is impossible.
Ah well.
If you’ve stuck with me this far, thankyou.
Read a good book for me.