The Trigger, November 2014

*All names on my blog are changed to protect the persons mentioned.

During the beginning of November 2014, I was placed into a psychiatric hospital after I had tried to kill myself for the fourth time. That place completely changed me, but also was nothing like it was advertised. It all began on November 1, 2014 when I was hanging out with my two best friends. We decided to go to one of our guy friends houses to just hang out. I had been thinking about killing myself soon, but did not know exactly when I wanted to go through with my plan.

My boyfriend, Tyler, had broken up with me the week before and I was not doing well. I have a history of cutting, but ever since the break up it had increased. Nights before I had attempted an overdose along with cutting. Razors to kitchen knives. I hated life. The thought of waking up in the morning disgusted me. Going to school made me feel lonely and dark. My entire life was being eaten by my depression. My boyfriend breaking up with me sent me over the edge.

My friends and I had to stop for gas before we went to our other friend’s house. I got out to pump the gas and Tyler pulled in. As soon as he saw me he drove across the street to the next gas station. That was it. The pain I felt just by one simple look at him hurt me bad enough and I decided that it was my night. We arrived at my friends house and no one was drinking. I went to the bathroom and swallowed a handful of my depression pills knowing that they do not react well with alcohol. I went back into the kitchen and began to drink. I wanted to drink myself to death and I wanted the pills to kill my body. I knew that it could be done. I chose this route because I knew it wouldn’t hurt. I was sick of wiping my own blood off the floor and feel sick from the pills. I wanted an easy way out. My friends were unaware that I had taken pills or of my intentions. They told me later that I drank half a handle of vodka and tons of beers. That is not me, yet I would do anything to die. The last thing that I remember from that night was sitting in the kitchen taking shots…alone.

3:00 a.m. I wake up but I am not awake at the same time. I have IVs in my arms, the worst headache of my entire life, and blurry vision. I see my mom and dad sitting next to me. I was in the hospital. I did not know what was going on. I whispered to my mom that I had tried to kill myself. It then clicked with me that my plan had not worked. I had patches all over my chest and stomach where the doctors had done some shock thing or something along those lines to keep me alive. I was later told that the doctors had to pump my stomach and that I was seconds from death. Seconds from death. I was so close, yet why did God not let me go?

The whole day I was in pain. I felt like a zombie in that hospital bed. I had bruises all over me and the headache raged on. Standing up was terrible and I wanted nothing more than to go home. I really thought that I would be going home that day.

A lady with short blonde hair walked into my room. She asked my parents to leave and told me that she was my social worker. I had no idea what that meant. She made me tell her everything that I could about my depression; I told her everything. She then left me and went to talk to my parents. They all walked in and she proceeded to tell me that I was going to be sent to the psychiatric hospital. I said no. No way was I going to that crazy house, not to mention I was in the middle of American Horror Story Asylum, so of course my mind imagines going there. I didn’t belong there…I’m not crazy. Am I?

I yelled at that woman. I cried harder than I had ever cried. I was so scared, so sad, so mad, so drained. I have never felt more pain and helplessness in my whole life. I wished that my life had ended the night before.

I was given clothes and a police officer was appointed to walk me to the hospital. I was so upset. I cannot even put into words the pain and fear I was feeling. It was hell. As I walked to the door my four friends Tasha, Polly, Hannah, and Ashley were standing there. For a moment I felt hope. I ran to them and hugged them and cried. I was so glad to see them.

I held my dad’s hand the whole way to the hospital. We walked together and my mom and my friends followed behind. I was then walked into the crazy house. My following blogs are word for word the journal that I kept while in the hospital.

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