Many Years of Poems

After I wrote the last entry, I took an overdose of Klonopin and had to be rushed to the hospital. I just got home this morning.

I'm doing better now. I just felt like everybody was angry at me over things I don't know how to fix.

I'm going to go back into counseling. I have to learn to cope better than I'm doing, or one of these days, I will kill myself. I had every intention of doing it the other day, and I was already feeling the effects of the overdose when I told Nicholas what I'd done.

Oh, and karmic_serenity, thanks so much for the hug. It's going to stay on my profile page as long as LJ will let it.

Anyway, I have to learn some better ways to cope with anxiety and frustration and I have to learn how to get past my communication blocks. Sometimes I just can't talk even when I desperately need to. So off to counseling I go. I'm going to check out a couple of different counselors and see which one I think fits me best and then start going on a regular basis.

Not bleach. Bleauch.

I feel horrible. I'm having diarrhea and I don't want to move. I just want to curl up with my teddy bear and stare into space.

I don't want to think any more. Thinking just makes me feel worse. I just want to blank out my mind and stop existing.

The nice new bottle of Klonopin that's still in the pharmacy bag looks pretty good right now.

I'm so afraid I won't get the disability and we'll be stuck struggling like this forever. I'm tired of struggling. I don't want to do it any more.

I just spent three days in the hospital again; suicidal thoughts got the better of me. The psychiatrist there raised my dosage of Celexa up to 60 mg (from 40 mg) and that seems to be helping. I don't feel quite so depressed any more and I can control the suicidal thoughts.

I hate being in the hospital. It's just not home. I took my teddy bear with me, but it wasn't the same as hugging my teddy bear in my bed with my boyfriend snuggled up to me.

I think I'm going to call the teddy bear Butter because of his color; he's a pale blond about the color of butter.

My online friends missed me, which was nice to find out. I don't think many of my RL friends even knew I was in the hospital.

I can't wait for bedtime tonight when I can sleep in my bed with Butter and my honey. :D

I really just want to curl up and cry. I can't make myself cry right now though, so that's out. But I feel like crying. I WANT to cry. I'm not even sure why I want to cry, except that I want to cut and I know I can't do that.

I need some kind of emotional outlet, and crying seems to be the safest one. It's better than cutting or making another suicide attempt (which thoughts have been floating through my mind lately too). But I can't cry even though I want to, need to.

I wish I could just get it all out, but it won't come out.

Sorry for my incoherence.

Yesterday afternoon, I took an overdose of sleeping pills.

I was just so upset over everything; the car, the holidays, the month of December, family drama. I just wanted it all to stop.

I did, however, call my boyfriend at work and tell him what I'd done. He called 911 (because I wouldn't, and I wouldn't go make myself throw up the pills), and I took a ride in an ambulance. My arms are still bruised from the paramedic trying to start an IV line in me. I'm usually not so hard to do, but for some reason yesterday I was not easy to stick.

I probably should still be in the hospital; I was Baker Acted, which technically means I should have been kept for 72 hours to determine how much of a danger I am to myself, but Cliff and I managed to talk the staff psychiatrist into letting me come home today. I really hate being in the hospital.

Now I have to tell my counselor and my nurse practitioner what I did. Joy.

I feel like an idiot.

BTW, diphenhydramine (aka Simply Sleep and/or Benadryl) makes you sleepy in small doses. When you take forty-some-odd of the things, it winds you up. I was tachycardic, hypertensive, and raving most of the night in the ER; they took me to a room once I'd stabilized a bit. Apparently it doesn't screw much up, though. I still feel a little dizzy and disoriented, and my speech is still a little stammery, but I'm otherwise okay.

I know I said a lot of things that didn't make any sense to anyone, even to me.

But then, I sometimes do things that don't make sense, even to me.

The family drama (which was probably the main catalyst to the overdose) is that my parents want to talk to me about something, but not in my daughter's presence, and they both want to talk to me. From past experience, this does not bode good news. I'm paranoid about them wanting to take my daughter away from me entirely, because I know what a mess I am. I had a dreadful panic attack yesterday at my mom's house, and then went home and took the overdose. My family does not know what I did, and I don't intend them finding out, either.

I really do think sometimes that I will never get better; that's what makes me do things like that, the belief that I will never be well.

I am so tired.

I had a good day today. I went to an SCA event with Cliff and my daughter, and I had a good time. I spent most of the day with the other scribal-type people doing calligraphy, and we left when I got tired.

And boy am I tired.

I was resting in bed trying to go to sleep (yes, this early, because I'm that tired), and I started thinking (again) about killing myself.

Why will these thoughts not leave me alone? It seems like every time I get quiet enough, the thoughts come into my head, talking to me, telling me I should sleep forever.

Sometimes I think that if I do end up killing myself, it will be to get away from the thoughts of killing myself. Ironic, wot?

I'm just writing whatever comes to mind now, trying to empty my brain so that maybe I can sleep. I am way beyond tired; my body is sore from walking and driving. I kept stiffening up while I was driving, and I'm not sure why. I wish to hell Cliff would drive sometimes, but I'm always the one who drives.

Cliff and my daughter napped during the drive there and back; I wish I could have.

Maybe the thoughts are coming because I'm overtired. I don't know. I just wish they would stop.

It just sucks that I had such a nice day and it has to end with these stupid suicidal thoughts. They just won't go the hell away.

I'm going to try to sleep again; I think I'll put on some quiet music to help me sleep. Maybe music will keep the thoughts away.

Well, I saw my counselor on Wednesday; she complimented Cliff and me on our ability to communicate and resolve difficulties (re: his beer breath during his birthday celebration).

She also seemed rather surprised at the doctor's phrasing of the rape question. She asked me if it was okay if she asked him why he said that; I told her to go for it. (I already cleared her to discuss my treatment and counseling with the doctor and her supervisor.) She seemed to agree with me that perhaps he might not be the best doctor for me. If he thinks there was anything I could have done to keep my dad from hurting me, then I don't need his kind of "help".

His office has called me a couple of times, but we keep missing each other. I'm not sure what they want; maybe they want to know why I haven't made an appointment.

I'm going to have to do something, because I only have so much of my medication, and I probably really do not need to stop taking it.

It all depresses me though; the thought of having to see the doctor again bothers me, because of the "was is JUST statutory rape" thing and because of his general demeanor, which made me a bit uncomfortable. But the thought of trying to find another doctor who is willing to see me without charging more than I can pay is not exactly thrilling either.

My counselor also wants me to think about my goals for treatment. I don't know. I'm having such a hard time making myself get out of bed most of the time that I have no real hope for being able to work or go to school again. (I've thought of returning to school to pursue my MA in English.)

I feel less suicidal than I did; at least I'm not spending a lot of time thinking about ways to kill myself. But I still feel fairly hopeless most of the time; I still can't see a future for myself in which I will be able to take care of myself, or be able to make my life into a life I want. I still can't see any way I'll ever be more than I am now, depressed and anxious and too afraid and despondent to really do anything.

I still worry about money, about getting the bills paid, about paying for my medical care, about the huge mass of debt I have (mostly medical). I still have nightmares; I had a horrendous one a few nights ago, in which my parents told me I was no longer welcome in their home, and they didn't want me around my daughter.

My parents have given me no real reason to think that they'd kick me out of their lives; I don't really know why I dreamt that.

I suppose I should call my counselor and ask if she has talked to the doctor, and if so, what he said and what she thinks I should do next. I'll call her in the morning, I guess.

After spending all of last Saturday, Tuesday, and Wednesday in bed with migraine, able to move only if I took Percoset (prescribed for my stepdad last July but sitting in the medicine chest unused), I looked up the side effects of Wellbutrin and found that severe headaches are a BAD side effect (as are tremors, which I'd been having issues with, too), and you're supposed to call your doctor if they happen. Well, I don't exactly have a doctor, until Monday, because the prescribing doctor pretty much told me I was on my own to find care once I was discharged from the hospital. So, I quit taking the Wellbutrin; Tuesday was the last time I took any. I couldn't see straight for the pain, and I could hardly function for the shaking in my hands.

I saw my counselor again on Thursday and told her about the med thing; she didn't really say anything about it but I got the impression that she thought it was probably a good idea to stop taking the meds since they were causing such problems, and since I'm going to see a psychiatrist on Monday anyway, it's not like I'll be completely unmedicated for very long anyway.

One thing that sort of annoyed me though, about the counselor appointment, is that I mentioned that the headaches felt like a combination of a migraine and tension headaches; her solution to that was to give me a sheet of instructions for deep-breathing exercises. Okay. Yeah.

All of this goes to my conviction that nothing is going to help. I'm withholding judgment on the psychiatrist until I see him, but it just doesn't feel like anything really helps. I can distract myself if I stay busy, but once I'm alone with my thoughts, it's the same old same old, hopeless worthless and broken beyond repair.

Not to mention being tired of trying all this shit anyway. It only helps for a little while, and only if I can afford the help.

I can't be fixed; I am too badly broken, and it happened too long ago. It's just too late for me. There is no way that I will ever be okay. I'm not going to make it. I know this.

I'm doing all this to humor Cliff, but he's going to get tired of spending money trying to fix me when I can't be fixed.

It's only a matter of time; I'm not going to make it.

The Wellbutrin is working well enough that I can't sleep. My heart keeps racing every time I try. I can't sleep.

And it's not working well enough to make the thoughts go away. I still feel worthless, useless, and any other negative adjective you care to apply. I still believe that there's no way out. I will never be okay. I'm just too broken to ever be okay. Nothing I've ever done has gotten me out for long; I always fall back to this place, and I'm tired.

If I had enough money for a motel room, I'd have already left the house and gone to take my pills. But I can't let my family find me.

I can't ever let them know how bad it is; they don't believe me, or they think I'm being melodramatic and they're tired of trying to help me anyway, because I can't be helped. There's no way out.

I can't ever let my daughter see me like this; she can never EVER know what I am, how damaged and disturbed I am. There's no way out.

I was broken too long ago to be fixed; it's just too late for me.

If I can make it until Friday, I should be able to have enough money to mail away the things I don't want my family to find. I can't fight any more. I just can't.

Okay, so, my car screwed up on Friday, scared me half to death, and then the trouble transpired to be something quite simple, a hose split open. My friend Tiff replaced the hose for me last night, and after I take her to work here in a few, I'm going to go take a shower, collect some clothes and toiletries, go to the hospital and tell the doctors what is going on with me.

This is my last attempt at getting help. If this doesn't work, I've already bought the pills.

I pretty much expect to be Baker-Acted, so I will not be around for a few days at least. If they don't help me, I will come back and make one last entry before I leave for good.