That should be the title of my autobiography. That or “Waiting for people to stop dicking around on the leg press”. Both equally sum up my general experience of living.

I got upset and made an oopsy. Not a big oopsy. Just a little one.

I took 2mg of Ativan when I’m supposed to take 0.5-1mg. Not a huge deal, but I’ll probably be falling asleep and spacing out all day tomorrow. This post may become unintelligible soon, but again, 2mg isn’t that much, so maybe not.

I feel like my body knows when I’ve taken things I shouldn’t have, because I am fairly nauseous. And even thinking about ODing makes me want to throw up sometimes.

Anyways, maybe I should get to what made me so upset. I mentioned feeling down earlier, and that feeling continued into the evening. At one point, my roommate started messaging me about how shitty she’s been feeling this past week, and how she wants to die. I’m always a shit person when my roommate has issues. It makes me unbearably anxious when anybody around me has a problem, so I tell myself they’re faking it for attention, and then I get to be mad instead of anxious. I caught myself doing that, but I’ve been able to keep it pretty rational. Whatever, that’s not relevant to the story. What set me off was my roommate’s boyfriend coming over to comfort her.

I know she is having a hard time. But I am so unbelievably jealous that she has somebody to comfort her when she’s upset and I don’t. I used to have that. Now I just feel like I’m drowning sometimes and nobody gives a fuck. And I know you can be in a relationship and still have problems, but I have the irrational feeling that everybody in a relationship should shut the fuck up about their problems because some of us are suffering alone. Some of us deal with everything you deal with, just without anybody who gives the tiniest shit about us. Do you know what I would give to have that?

I feel I should specify that I am not jealous because I want her boyfriend in particular. Not only am I fairly certain I’m gay at this point, but Kyle and I have a strange relationship. Our conversations are brief and a hybrid of mild discomfort and amicable joking. And I know more about his sex life and particularly his penis than I would prefer. It’s just what he represents.

Ugh, but I literally could have taken a half milligram or even a milligram and gotten the same effect without feeling like shit tomorrow. Oh well, live and learn.

I think this post is much more well-written than I expected it to be. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and change my mind, but that’s tomorrow Sarah’s problem.

Good night, homo sapiens



Update: Still Depressed

I apologize for the nonstop bombardment of pure joy and excitement that is my blog these days. I’ll try to bring the optimism down to a manageable level.

But seriously, I am still depressed and it fucking sucks.

My previous two hospital extravaganzas left me feeling renewed and filled with purpose. My near-death (but not really) experiences had caused me to achieve enlightenment, and I couldn’t imagine ever overdosing again, the world shiny and sparkly as it was. Tonight, a small part of me is considering asking for a psych admission. Like on purpose. I honestly don’t feel much better than I did when I got myself into this mess, and that’s a scary thought. Something obviously needs to change, because I can’t keep spending my weekends in the ER.

Again, maybe my meds need to be changed, or maybe I need a different type of counselling. Most likely, I need to start eating more again. But without the piece-of-an-eating-disorder I’ve been toting around, I will truly be alone. And then the ground will come out from beneath me, and the world will just open up and swallow me. Obviously that’s a bit dramatic, but I swear that’s how it feels.

I suppose there isn’t much I can do to fix my life in the hospital at 1am. Except sleep. Oh right, sleep. Let’s do that.


We’re back in the hospital, friends


Yesterday, I finished watching the second presidential debate and promptly overdosed on Ativan and Tylenol. My actions weren’t actually related to the US going to hell in a handbasket, but the timing is kind of funny.

As the lover of science and logic that I am, I decided to text my ex-girlfriend again, because it leads to a good outcome 100% of the time. This was Friday night. I managed to sleep away most of Saturday with the help of Seroquel and Melatonin, but by Sunday, I still felt like shit.

I didn’t want to die, but I needed to stop feeling the way I was feeling. So when the debate ended and there was nothing left to distract me, I took a bit of Ativan and a lot of Tylenol, self-harming between handfuls of pills. I figured it would either cause something to change, or it would kill me. Either way, I did not want to wake up the next morning to the same feelings.

I woke up my roommate, and we headed off to the hospital for THE FOURTH WEEKEND IN A ROW. My memory gets fuzzy at this point, but I know I was given  a bed in the ER, hooked up to IV Acetylcysteine, and put on a “Form 1”.

I was seen by a psychiatrist and a psychiatric resident this morning, and they both felt that I did not need to be admitted to psych (thank god). So, once again, I have been admitted to medical for 18000 years of IV treatment. I realize this stuff is saving my life, but it’s doing it rather slowly.

So, something needs to change. Maybe it’s my meds. Maybe I need to start a new therapy program. Maybe, I float in and out of the ER until I do get admitted. Who knows?

In the meantime, I am lurking around Instagram and watching The Scorch Trials on Netflix. Hope everyone is well!



Trigger Warning: Self-Harm, Overdose, Depression, etc.

First off, I am so terribly sorry if I upset or trigger anybody. That is the last thing I want. I just need somewhere to express these feelings.

It isn’t a secret that it’s been a bad day for me. I’ve gotten through many a bad day in the past few weeks, so that was manageable. But then, I got into a weird impulsive head space and decided to ask my roommate to tell my ex (they were mutual friends) that she should get back together with me. Because reality is a thing that exists, my ex told her that it isn’t going to happen. And there goes my cleverly designed house of cards. So anyways, I am very much not okay.

I am on a lot of Lorazepam again (a safe but very sedating amount), and there was a bit of a self-harm situation.. a pretty bad situation. I am fighting the urge to make terrible jokes, because this is actually a very serious thing. No one needs to be concerned for my safety, as I have a lot of anxiety about death and am not down for that at this time. I also know the resources available to me and DBT strategies blah blah blah. I’m so sorry that you are seeing me in full crazy right now. This head space is where I live right now; I can’t make it stop.

My point is, I am having a horrible night, Ativan can be blaimed for my shit writing, and nobody needs to worry about something bad happening because resources, fear, and DBT. I’ll arise another day to feel deep shame and regret, don’t you even worry.



Hospital (Yes, Again)

So, today has been one of the most unpleasant days of my life.

If you read my previous two posts, you know that I took a lot of Ativan last night in order to cope with some feelings regarding my breakup. I ended up scaring my roommate, and after calling poison control and the pharmacy for second opinions, she called 9-1-1. I was heavily sedated at this time, so the next thing I remember is being woken up by my roommate and two paramedics.

The next thing I remember is waking up this morning in an unfamiliar hospital, and being told I had been “formed”. This means that I was deemed a danger to myself or others, and that the hospital could legally hold me for up to 72 hours to receive psychological evaluation. I was pissed. I took some extra Ativan… it clearly wasn’t a suicide attempt.

I was transferred to a hospital with emergency psychiatric services around 11-12. Up until this time, I had been repeatedly refused my medication, even though I feel much worse emotionally and physically when I take them late.

Anyways, I thought the doctor would see me quickly, and that I would be out the door in a couple of hours. That is not what happened. I waited in a locked ward for 10 hours, during which time I received one sandwich, two cookies, one cup of water, and no medication.

I had a panic attack. I cried and cried, asking for the form to be lifted. I felt so claustrophobic trapped in this shitty room involuntarily for an unknown amount of time. Since I woke up this morning, I have just wanted to go home. I finally had my psychological evaluation around 10, and after additional waiting for follow-up questions and a final recommendation, I was able to leave the hospital around 11.

I remember nothing about the ride to the hospital or the initial evaluations. My roommate recently informed me that on multiple occasions, I threatened to “take Tylenol next time and wait to die so I don’t have to deal with any of you.” That might have something to do with getting formed. I also apparently forgot every ten minutes that my vitals had been taken, and got lost on the way back from the bathroom, which are far more funny and less scary.

There is no moral to this story. I mean, I guess don’t OD on Ativan. It really isn’t that dangerous though. (I am an awful person) My roommate did the right thing by calling someone; she thought they would monitor me overnight and send me home in the morning. She couldn’t predict the awful things I would say. Honestly, I couldn’t either. I can’t imagine saying those things to a doctor, especially one with the option to hold me involuntarily. And the form does make some sense given the threats I was making. Although, getting my medication 14 hours late wasn’t necessary, and dinner would have been nice. The assholes who allowed that to happen have no excuse.

I am home now, and extremely happy about it. I have taken some gravol and melatonin to counter the effects of taking my medication late (namely nausea and difficulty sleeping), so I imagine I will be asleep very soon. That’s about it for my terrible, awful, no-good, very bad day. Don’t have that day.



In the hospital again

I am being held in the hospital involuntarily for up to 72 hours until I get a psychiatric assessment. In other words, I am on a “Form 1”, courtesy of the mental health act. I didn’t even try to kill myself. My roommate called them after I took too much Ativan, which isn’t lethal. I want to go home, so I am fucking pissed.