The Struggle Is Real!

It may come as no surprise to some of my readers, specifically those who I know personally, that I’ve dealt with depression pretty much my whole life. I honestly cannot remember a time when I haven’t gone more than a few days without feeling down about something.

I’ve been meaning to write this for a few weeks now, well ever since the incident, but I’ve not yet been in the right frame of mind to do so, nor have I been able to put into words how I really felt then and feel now. Hell I still don’t know for sure if I know how to put thought to paper, but after another difficult day, I’m writing to get this shit out of my head.

The day started off like a typical-for-me day. Up with coffee likely at an early hour because I couldn’t sleep, playing some xbox to pass the time and zone out, and then the painful freedom of being unemployed. I quit my job a week before, due to various reasons, who’s specifics don’t really matter in this post. Long story short, I wasn’t happy. At some point early that Tuesday afternoon, we decided to go to the gym. Something I’d been putting off for quite some time due to surgery recovery and the general feeling that I am so terribly out of shape, unhealthy, and overweight that I couldn’t possibly bear starting from scratch, yet again. The gym workout was decent, surprisingly to me I was able to do more than I thought I could. However, I got pissed because I wasn’t ready to leave but HE was and so that started a minor feud between us, only exacerbated by the fact that he didn’t want to accompany me with the errands I had to run and he was just going home to be dropped off only to isolate himself and for me to be pissed about everything. (Added note: In retrospect, I now know he wanted dropped off so he could perfect his cheating abilities, ya know increase the amount of chicks he could start pursuing . More on this later). See, when it comes to pissing Jamie off in any way, I need the issue resolved and not just swept under the rug, otherwise I stew on things, I over complicate situations, and in the end I self medicate with alcohol. So we went our separate ways and then when I returned home I got busy cleaning and preparing for dinner. Erica was coming up to have dinner with us and hang out by the fire for awhile.

Once she arrived we put on fake smiles and went about the few hours she was there decently. Upon her leaving, I decided I didn’t want to sit out at the fire any longer and took a shower and stayed inside nursing a cheap bottle of Walmart wine and playing xbox. He remained by the fire. Now, for a girl with insecurity issues, poor self esteem, and a variety of other bullshit, short straw getting, mental garbage that plagues my brain daily, this didn’t sit right with me. I wanted him to come in with me, but I didn’t. I wanted to go out, but I didn’t. I honestly don’t even know if I knew what I really wanted. Which sadly is part of the problem as well. So I started my second bottle of wine and continued to sulk inside, growing more and more annoyed as the time went by. At some point I went down and let him know I wasn’t coming back out. I was then informed that a friend was coming over to have a few beers with him. As you can imagine, me being the aforementioned mental case, I was pissed. “Why can he sit out here with some guy he’s only met once and can’t even be bothered to sit with me?” “Why the hell is this guy coming over at midnight (or after) to sit by a fire pit, in town, where we have neighbors all around us? Don’t they realize there’s noise ordinances here?” Being unable to bite my tongue, I told Him how I felt and that pissed him off as well. I should mention I don’t do well with having a disagreement with someone and then they just say “whatever” or “okay then”…like, don’t just blow me off, FUCKING TALK TO ME DAMNIT! But that’s how it was left when I stormed inside, consequently as this guy was showing up.

I continued drinking my wine and not too long after I’d stormed inside mad at the world, He came in. I don’t really recall the events that unfolded immediately following. I know we argued and then he said he was leaving to get away from me. That just fueled the fire more, because as I mentioned, not resolving stuff with me is a huge shit stirring gesture. A sure fire way to make everything go from bad to traumatizing in a heartbeat. After he left I remember laying in the bedroom, texting and pleading with him to come back. Then I remember calling my friend Eric, telling him my woes and frustrations and threatening to take a bunch of pills. It had to of been nearly 3am by now because Eric’s sleeping meds were kicking in, which I only know any of this because I reread our facebook messages after coming home from the hospital, and he apologized for not being more help at that time. Things progressed from there to me taking a handful of pills, writing a goodbye facebook post, a message to my daughter’s stepmom, and a very poorly hand written note to my daughter.

That’s when I decided I was so very done. I’d given up. I’d ran out of positives to look at. I convinced myself my daughter would be better off without me. I wouldn’t be here failing her like I’d done so many times over the years or embarrassing her. I was certain her dad and stepmom were more than capable enough of taking care of her should she be grief stricken in my absence. They’d be able to reiterate that this was in no way anything to do with her, just that mom wasn’t strong enough anymore to keep fighting to get by. I also convinced myself that the handful of friends who would actually care, would too be fine. I mean, I didn’t and some days still don’t, think too highly of myself so I didn’t see how they would be too devastated in my absence. There was no job vacancy to fill with me gone, there’s no family to care, but the one thing that I was struggling with was leaving my cats behind. I addressed this too with a few people, asking that they look after the cats, find them good homes or see if they could go with me somehow. It’s funny now thinking back at this stuff, how I can remember these thoughts going through my mind yet, I can’t remember how I ended up in the hospital, or the events that came after most of these thoughts.

Perhaps I got this a bit jumbled up in my memory, the actual what took place before the other, the cause and effect. It’s possible I didn’t write my goodbyes until after what I’m about to describe and before popping a shit ton of pills. It would make more sense if I hadn’t. Either way, this next part is scary, and it is painful for me to think about and to relive, I guess you could say. Not only am I embarrassed, ashamed, and scared to put to words, put in writing, put out there in the world for others to read, people who will now judge me even more so than before, people who may use this against me in the future…but it’s a risk worth taking if it shines a little light on mental illness or how important it is to not be a shitty friend. So here goes…at some point between Him leaving, me writing goodbyes, and taking a bunch of pills, I grabbed the 9mm gun from the dresser drawer. I grabbed the loaded clip laying next to it from the same drawer. I walked back to my bed and sat with my back against the wall, tears streaming down my face, unable to steady my breathing, looking at the gun, then the clip, then sobbing, then taking a drink of wine, then looking at my phone for a reply text, nothing there, then back at the gun, and then the clip….I put the clip in the gun. I tried to steady my hand, but was not successful which made me cry even harder. I remember thinking, “this is it! There’s no coming back from this once the trigger is pulled. There’s no take backs, no I’m sorry, just a quick end result to a lifetime of trauma.” Now to this very moment I am sure I shut the bedroom door completely, but I guess I hadn’t. Or perhaps a force of nature opened it just slightly for someone/something to enter. I hadn’t noticed the status of the door either way as I raised the gun to just under my chin. I pointed it up towards the ceiling, to the top of my head, then somewhat comically, although it’s a bit of pretty crappy humor I must admit, I thought to myself, “I better not fuck this up and miss because I sure as hell don’t want to be a vegetable.” Who the hell thinks these things before they want to end their life with a freaking gun. THIS GIRL…apparently. So I’m sitting there in my bed, back against the wall, tears still pouring, phone still not receiving any communication, and I am one breathe away from pulling that damn trigger, one breathe, one breathe from life and death, and I see something move out of the corner of my eye, and so of course I look, I look just in time to see Sparty, my sweet sweet loving always there for me massive Spartacus leap up onto the bed next to me, as if to stop me from what I was about to do. Initially I pushed him away telling him to get out. And one look into his eyes and I dropped the gun to my lap and sat and sobbed holding him. I didn’t know it then but now I really believe if it weren’t for him, I’d definitely not be here. There would never have been any second chances, I wouldn’t have woken up in the hospital albeit confused and unsure what was going on, and I sure as hell wouldn’t have been able to come home and see him again.

I believe it was after Sparty “saved me” when I actually took the pills. Because I knew I couldn’t use a gun, I knew I wouldn’t want my cats scared of the gunshot, of the messyaftermath, so I took 50 or so pills to hopefully do the job more peacefully. And that is officially the last thing I remember. Counting the pills, throwing them in my mouth, washing them down with wine.

You know in movies when someone is coming in and out of consciousness? How it shows a flash of the lights overhead, or depicts people talking but the unconscious person doesn’t see them, can’t see them and doesn’t know what’s going on? That was me. Because I remember having this feeling of falling out of something, like a chair or bed or something, and people around me telling me to keep my hands in I was secured, I wouldn’t fall, but I have no clue who it was, where it was, etc. Well apparently that was me interacting with the paramedics. I was told that at around 7am that morning He woke up to the door being pounded on by the police. They had come to do a wellness check on me after Erica’s stepmom called them concerned regarding the message I sent her. They found me in the bathroom on the floor unconscious. Apparently meds kicked in and I passed out smacking my head, on Odin know’s what, on the way down. Somehow, He had no idea thats where I was or what had happened. The feeling of falling I was having was from the chair they put me in to get me out of the house. Since we have stairs, that was, I guess, the best way to get me to the ambulance. I remember nothing after that until waking up in a room in the ICU at Mercy Hospital.

Apparently I spent a few hours in the ER that morning after my arrival. They ran tests, tried to figure out what I’d taken, even though He had a pretty good idea given the empty bottle next to the bed, and doing a CT scan to make sure I’d not messed up my brain any more than it already was due to the fall. I woke with a decently sized goose egg on my noggin, dry mouth like no one can imagine, a sore throat, a catheter, and hooked up to a ton of annoying wires to monitor my vitals. He was there but he looked pissed, which I figured out why after the fact. Nothing made sense to me and I was so out of it and groggy I couldn’t even talk. I’d try to construct a sentence but it was like my tongue was 100x the size it should be. I don’t know how many times I had to stop, regroup my thoughts and try to proceed again, before just falling back to sleep annoyed with myself. When I was a bit more coherent a few hours later, I attempted to visit with one of my best friends who came to see me, as she had read the facebook post and was worried. Apparently He had informed her what happened and she was there immediately. I felt shame, embarrassment, and sadness, because here was this woman, who loved me and was my best friend and who has always been there for me, distraught at my selfish actions. What the hell Jamie! I “spoke” with various medical staff, some nice, some rude, some genuinely concerned for me while I became more and more coherent. I couldn’t drink enough water or eat enough ice chips. Shitty, karma-tic part, I couldn’t even hold the straw so that it would get into my mouth. I’d raise the cup to my lips and totally overshoot the straw. Then I’d try again. Same result. How pathetic! I’d finally succeed using two hands but then I had to figure out how to pull one hand off the small styrofoam cup to guide the straw into my mouth and avoid the imminent eye gouging. It got better as the day progressed but let me tell you, when your brain, hands, mouth, and legs won’t work how they should, and you’re aware of it, it’s absolutely terrifying. All I could think is, “well you did it this time Jamie, really fucked yourself up. No more walking, bike riding, lifting weights, because the amount of pills you took, FUCKED YOUR BRAIN UP.” I wasn’t pleased with myself by any means.

When I was finally able to see a psych doctor, I remember her asking for the details about what had happened to which I was completely honest with her about. Then she asks the usual question doctor’s and medical staff ask when someone does what I did; “did you want to kill yourself?” Honestly? You’re asking me this? And I think to myself, how do I answer this so that I’m not locked up for weeks on end, because there’s no way in hell I can be without my cats for any extended period of time, especially after all of this. So I tell her, “Well no, but yes. I wanted the hurt to stop. I’m tired of hurting-physically and mentally. But I’m glad I’m still alive.” I muttered something like that. Still unable to fully construct a sentence let alone a word properly. The doctor nodded and proceeded to ask me this, “now tell me why I shouldn’t recommend you stay inpatient”…..My heart sank. The only thing I could think of was my cats! There’s no way I can be without them. And knowing that Mercy Hospital doesn’t have an inpatient treatment, I’d have to be shipped somewhere else, likely not close by. And I sure as hell wasn’t going back to UIHC. So, I told her exactly that. That being away from my cats for an extended period of time would negatively impact me. She said okay. Long story short, she said I could go home the next day, that they still would like me to stay for 24 hours for observation. I agreed to this, because honestly I didn’t want to go home yet…

I have to be honest here, I started writing this a few days ago and only this morning, when I am unable to sleep due to more bullshit depression and relationship woes, I am finishing this post. So if it seems to come to an abrupt end, well that’s why. However, this story is really about to it’s end anyway so here goes…

I was released the next day, mid-day, and He came to take me home. (Additional edit: now here’s where I gave praise for the ex being a good guy and how “supportive” he was to me…it’s deleted now because that was all bullshit. He was never interested in being supportive, actually, he failed at what he had intended to do to me, and hoped like hell I would never figure it out. THAT is why this bastard went out of his way to appear good natured abs supportive, just until he could devise another scheme.). Getting home to the kitties was the best feeling ever. I cuddled everyone of them, probably cried a lot too, especially when Sparty came up to me, putting his nose on me, pushing his face into my shoulder as if to say, “I’m here mom; I got you.”

I contacted the people who reached out to me and let them know I was home and safe. I let Erica’s stepmom know that I was home and would be okay. I have yet to thank her properly for calling for a wellness check. You know, this is a woman who at first all those years ago, I despised. Despised because I blamed her for “stealing my boyfriend” which she didn’t do, it wasn’t meant to be. I disliked her because she was going to be a parental figure in my daughter’s life, and I was scared. It took me some time to realize that she’s an amazing person. I’d even say she’s a saint given the fact that she took in not only my daughter but Erica’s sister, and has loved them as her own probably since day one, as they are both amazing little, well not little any more, young ladies. I will send her a card and properly thank her for her actions in a time which I was at my weakest. It sounds a bit cheesy but I can better put into words my thoughts and feelings via writing, so I think it’s fairly appropriate.

My plan for recovery: The moment I got home I made sure I was set up with appointments for psychology to manage my meds. I needed to be put on a different medication as the one I was taking wasn’t helping, obviously. I also put in a request for a therapist and for alcohol treatment with Prelude. Given the only times I’ve attempted this, have been fueled by alcohol, except the first time I overdosed on Tylenol and Ibuprofen in high school, I knew it was time to get help for drinking. By the end of the week I was set up with various appointments and had a plan of attack for staying, well, “sane” I guess you could say. Part of this recovery is finally realizing that I have a problem. Well maybe not a problem but that there is some serious damage from childhood experiences, shitty relationships, and the in between bullshit, that have negatively impacted my brain and I cannot get through successfully on my own. There’s no shame in it. Just need the right support system and the right people to help me. It’s funny at age 36 I finally accept that I need this help. I mean, of course over the years I’ve had therapy, tried various medications, and tried resolving this stuff, but it’s been basically on my own, with no support, at least none like I’ve found these past few weeks. While I was in the hospital, The ex had to come home to take care of the critters. He’d asked our neighbors to check on the dog while he was with me at the hospital. When they kicked him out at 8pm, he came home and sat around the fire pit with the neighbors and explained what had happened. When I got home I was able to talk with my neighbor about what had happened. I’m going to preface this by saying, I firmly believe, in the most non-religious way, I put emphasis on this because I am not Christian and I do not believe in the Christian ideals, I follow Norse Mythology because it makes sense to me and resonates with me more than what I was taught when I was younger about Christian values, primarily because MOST Christians that I’ve met, including biological family, are judgmental, lying, hypocritical fakes, and they ruined it for me. My neighbor and I talked a long time and she informed me that she suffers from very similar mental “issues” as I do. I was relieved and saddened at the same time, that someone else could identify and understand fully, and I mean FULLY, what I go through on a regular basis. I firmly believe that I was meant to meet her, that us moving to this house and she living next door is a circumstance beyond luck. I have since become best friends with this woman. I’d cheesily venture to say she is my rock. Or as she put it, “I am a rollercoaster and she is my rails.” How absolutely amazing is that? To have someone I barely know, be willing to take me under her wing, to be my non-therapist therapist? To listen when I’m struggling, at all hours of the day/night. She’s offered me more advice and support in the few short weeks than I’ve had, well ever. We often joke that my crazy matches her crazy and vice versa. I’m okay with us being called crazy, because life is crazy and my life is very crazy; always has been, likely always will be. I am the rollercoaster who needs rails. I am someone who’s gone through some serious shit, some better and some worse than others’, but somehow, I’ve managed to remain here. To be honest, I have yet to understand my purpose, or the reason I’m still alive. I shouldn’t be, given the amount of pills I’ve popped fueled by alcoholic sadness. But somehow, the right people pulled through when no one else knew I was struggling or cared. And somehow, I am here, to tell my story, to keep fighting, even though there are days, and currently today is one of them, that I don’t want to. Maybe one day I won’t be so lucky. Maybe one day I’ll completely lose my shit and that will be the end. But for now, I am going through the steps and jumping through the hoops to try to fix ME. If not for myself but for my daughter and my cats; for my newly found friend(s) who have already told me that if something happens to me, they’ll shit in my urn. LOL! These are the people who I need in my life. People that help me feel that I matter, that I’m not this massive fuck up who shouldn’t be here, who doesn’t deserve an amazing daughter, a house full of cats, and people who do actually care.

I got lucky this time, next time, perhaps I won’t. But for now, I will continue to do what I can to stay sober (which I’ve been since the night this all happened, not a drop to be had), get meds managed, and seek out therapy. I have an amazing therapist who I am meeting with weekly. She’s one of the coolest ladies I’ve ever met and has some really great things that I can utilize to help get through the bullshit. I have taken up DIY wood working to occupy my mind when I’m feeling stressed, depressed or overwhelmed. I’m also going to start writing more, which has always been a coping mechanism for me. I can’t promise I won’t try this again. To be honest, it’s something I think about on a regular basis especially when things aren’t so great at home. Relationships failing or heartache related to them, has always brought me down and put me in a rough spot.

For now, I will do what I can…

For now, I will keep fighting…

For now, I will start the healing process…