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Who is going to want me now? by Jill March fifteenth of 1998. That was the day that changed my life. I was pacing in my bedroom. Tears were streaming down my cheeks. I couldn't breathe because I was crying so hard. I collapsed on my bed. I had just had another fight with my parents. I was frustrated. I was so mad. Then an idea popped into my head. Pills. Lots of pills. That would make the pain end. I thought it would make them all see that I really meant business. I wrote what I thought would be my last journal entry. I cleaned my room and changed into my favorite jeans and blue hooded sweatshirt. I locked myself in my bathroom and stared at the bottle of generic brand aspirin. An unfamiliar song was playing on the radio on the counter. I later determined it was Alanis Morisette. A favorite of mine. I swallowed approximately forty pills. I looked in the mirror, disgusted with myself. I had done it. I had actually taken the next step and swallowed them. I cried as I paced some more. I ran frantically down the stairs making a decision that would change my life. I told my mother what I had done. She yelled at me and then went through about every emotion possible before grabbing my father and driving me to the local hospital. For anyone who has never had his or her stomach pumped has never really known Hell. It is the scariest thing to ever have to go through. I had no reaction to the drugs they (the doctors) poured down the funnel, into my stomach. I had no gag reflex. I wouldn't throw it up. I cried as they tried different things. Eventually those little white pills made their appearance again. After that traumatizing event they put me on an I.V. to flush the rest of that crap out of my system. I had to pee in a bedpan every ten minutes. It was humiliating. I was practically lying in my own pee. My parents stood over me while I lay helplessly in bed. Something shiny ran down my father's face. It was a tear. I had never seen my father cry. I was the one who struck my fathers heart. I put him over the edge. I had made my father cry. Eventually they moved me into the children's ward-or whatever they call it. I had to have a nurse with me wherever I went. I wasn't allowed to be alone. I couldn't eat the food there. I slowly dehydrated myself unknowingly. They forced me to drink cup after cup of soda and water. Just when I thought I was going to die of loneliness an angel saved me. His name was Michael. He was a patient-he looked like he was eight but talked like he was an adult. "Why are you here?" he asked. "Attempted suicide," I replied. He said, "my sister is suicidal. She's at (a mental hospital)." I raised my eyebrows. Moments after I had tried to take my life I was hearing the story of a girl my own age going through the same struggles. If she could survive maybe I could too! Michael left before I did. We hugged goodbye. I haven't seen him since that day but his image is vivid in my mind. I like to think that he was the first step in my recovery. Anyway, like I was saying before. In my mind I yelled at myself. You're so stupid, I'd tell myself. Who's going to want you now that you're tainted? Who's going to want to marry you? Nobody. Who's going to stick around once they find out about you? Although I experienced many different emotions that day the social worker decided that I was stable. I could go home. My home. With my clean room and my cat and my squeaky bedroom door. The next few days are a blur. Filled with tears and numerous trips to a psychologist. My experience with a professional whatever-they-are was a bad one. She was cold and accusing. Weeks after my recovery she would accuse me of being clinically depressed and suicidal despite my strong desire to live. This bad experience only heightened my drive to get my life back together. I knew that once I was back to normal again I could say good bye to her. Now it is a whole year later. I am currently dealing with depression. I still battle with the idea that my past is tainted. I haven't had a real relationship since the incident. One can see how this might reinforce this idea. I can't bring myself to tell my parents that I feel this way. They'd probably dismiss my silent plea for help. The good thing is that the nightmares have disappeared. I mean, sure every once in a while I can see myself in the hospital again with the tube down my throat. Fortunately now I can control my thoughts. If you or someone you know (sounds like a Public service announcement) is suicidal, get him or her help. They have mental problems and need to be in the care of professionals. Don't deny what you know is there. Do yourself a favor and get yourself or your friend some help. Top of page Webmaster: wulff@ratatosk.net |