TW: PILLS, OVERDOSE, SUICIDE
It isn’t a secret that I haven’t been feeling so great lately.
Yesterday, I decided to rectify this situation by making a string of some of the worst decisions I have ever made. The first was to call my ex. Wait, how did I get there? Let’s back up to Thursday afternoon.
She and I had class together. I then walked home in tears, not for the first time that week. I knew I would be sad for a long time, and that there was nothing I could do about it. Panic set it.
When I got home, I frantically “researched” how one gets over a breakup. Get rid of their belongings. Check. Make plans with friends. Check. Cut off all contact. Shit. Accept what has happened. Shit…
I have a habit of refusing to do anything halfway. If I was going to move on, I was going to move on TODAY. I sent my ex a “final” text. I told her that our relationship would always mean a lot to me. I said goodbye. I played a sad song and mourned for three minutes. I responded to my constant painful memories by thinking “That’s in the past. It’s over. It’s fine.” I allowed the pain to drown me with the passivity of a captain going down with his ship. If this was how I had to get over her, I would do it all day long.
On Friday, I left the house only to see my counselor and make a brief stop at the library. I ended up on a part of campus where I used to catch the bus to my ex’s house. This made me miss her more than ever. My overzealous resolve to move on had faded, and I again refused to accept that my relationship was over. This is when I decided to call her. I got her voicemail.
“I love you. I miss you. I miss your mom.”
“I know it’s all fucked up now, but we can fix it.”
“I can do things differently. We can do things differently.”
At least two minutes of foolishly hopeful remarks, punctuated by somewhat-restrained sobs. I thought it was beautiful. Obviously, she would realize that things weren’t over between us. She would drive to my house and hold me tightly and not let me go again.
Her texted response? “Our relationship is over. It’s done.”
Unwilling to accept this, I continued.
“You don’t know that.”
We went back and forth like this for a few minutes. She eventually threatened to block my number if this continued.
I don’t know if I ever explained why she broke up with me. I still don’t fully understand it. Apparently, she realized she needs/wants to be alone right now in order to “figure things out”. It’s a bullshit reason that makes absolutely no sense if you have somebody in your life that you love and/or care about. When she refused my pleas to just TRY with me for TWO SECONDS, I concluded that our entire relationship had been a lie and that she had never loved me. I felt like an idiot. A pathetic, heartbroken idiot.
I began to imagine the timeline of my life. My new revelation fit neatly into the uninterrupted sequence of lies. My childhood was spent being lied to by my parents. During my teen years, I was lied to by the church. In university, the lies came from an eating disorder. And just as I began feeling confident in my recovery, I met her. The next ten months were stolen from me as I was lied to yet again. Everything I thought I knew was ripped from me, and I didn’t feel like sticking around to find out who would lie to me next.
I will spare the details, but I took some pills.
And then I got scared. This wasn’t how I wanted things to end for me. I dialed 9-1-1 and packed a bag for the hospital.
Fast forward to a nurse telling me the treatment takes over 24 hours. Fast forward to puking repeatedly in an ER recycling bin. Fast forward to being woken up every couple of hours by a nurse, a psychiatrist, a resident-something and a who-knows-what. Taking blood. Checking vitals. Asking if I still had thoughts of hurting myself. Changing my IV bag. Telling me that what I did was dangerous, as if that wasn’t the point.
My roommate told my ex what happened, and she seems to think the two of us are making it up. “Worrying me is one of your hobbies,” she said. Kay.
I have been here for over 20 hours, and I have around 18 left to go. It is safe to say I feel like an idiot. I could have been feeling sad at home right now, with clean clothing and no hospital food. I have just as many problems as I had yesterday, only now I am having them in a shittier place.
I am not telling this story for attention. There is nothing cool about spending your weekend surrounded by elderly people getting dialysis and people in scrubs bitching about each other. There is nothing fun about wearing the same bra for three days because you are attached by the vein to a giant pole. If you are in crisis, contact your counselor. Reach out to supportive people in your life. If necessary, go to the ER before you do anything drastic.
And if you do decide to take a bunch of pills on a Friday night, don’t expect her to care. She never did, and she never will.