Tag Archives: suicide

Prescription pain killers

If I were trying to be cool, I would wake up every day the same way I woke up today: in a cold sweat. I thought it was Thursday. I leapt up and ran down stairs looking for a calendar to confirm the disaster. Not only was I unprepared for the rest of the week, but I had missed marriage counseling. I mean, we missed marriage counseling. I hate missing things. I hate forgetting things. I have been doing better, but I still forget about appointments, assignments.

It is Sunday, 5:15 am, and I’ve been up an hour.

The last important thing I forgot was Small’s family tree assignment. We threw it together last minute, and it was beautiful, but it didn’t have a lot of the things it should have had, and would have if I looked at the assignment sheet. I didn’t and I still feel terrible.

But back to me. Two nights in a row I took Xanax to sleep. Last night I lay awake for an hour. I am not familiar with insomnia so it was frustrating and strange. I finally got up and took a Flexerill. It took about a half hour to put myself down.

Tomorrow I will not take anything to sleep. (Who died of an over-dose, or misuse of prescription medication in the last couple of years?) “…commonly abused prescription drugs like OxyContin, Vicodin, Xanax, Soma and the newly popular Fentanyl, which has 100 times the pain killing abilities of morphine, cause more deaths than cocaine and heroin combined.” (Emphasis mine) http://www.addictinginfo.org/2012/01/18/surge-in-prescription-drug-overdoses-causes-drug-induced-deaths-to-top-motor-vehicle-fatalities/) Heath Ledger, Michael Jackson, and Brittnay Murphy, all had high levels of legal, prescription drugs in their systems when they died.

I didn’t know Sara Teasdale died by suicide. Have been convicted I want to do more for the cause – considering the Out of the Darkness Overnight. More about that here http://theovernight.donordrive.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=donordrive.eventDetails&eventID=501

No more for now. Don’t want to think about it.


The thing about prescription medication

I’ve been off kilter lately so I’ve had quite a few conversations with myself. When things get intense, we talk about tough stuff, like prescription medication. Whitney probably died because of some trouble with her prescription medication, and we know Michael did. Ya know what? I was right there with them. My doctor specifically said the only reason I didn’t go was because it, “wasn’t (my) time”.

Months later I recognize that it’s like I’ve gone through a dangerous initiation. Let’s say I did take the “I” tablets three times a day and the “I” pills twice. (That would be three times the prescribed dose) Top it off with some “A” or a glass of wine and that would be it. If there was an investigation they wouldn’t be able to tell if it was a suicide or a homicide. If I were famous there would be a great outcry against psychiatry and psychiatrists in general, even if the problem lies with me. Do I need to be less responsible for myself? Is it possible for me to be more?

I honestly don’t know. It’s 8:25 and I am exhausted. I pretty much made cards all day, with a quick trip to TJ’s. A friend, who ordered a dozen, is having a lot of trouble with her gastric bypass stuff. She likes giraffes and ordered a dozen cards so I will be back on the giraffe wagon. When I last talked to a banker he asked what my occupation was. I thought about it for a minute before I told him, “artist.” This year alone I’ve been “writer” “therapist” and now “artist”. All of them sound pretty cool. I say this so as to warn you: I am not pretty cool. I’m wearing green and pink snowflake pajamas at eight o’clock on a Saturday night. I am getting a sore throat, too. But enough of all my complaining.

Still Reeling

If you don’t know me, I’m boring you, but if you don’t know me, I don’t think you’re reading this blog.  

I went to the psychiatrist today.  (A psychiatrist is a MD who prescribes medication.)  She was shocked and horrified by my Inderal overdose.  “We would both be in trouble,” she said, and spent the rest of our appointment reeling.  This was serious stuff.  “It just wasn’t your time,” she said.  I had done a very dangerous thing.  I have mostly stayed cool about this stuff, but, to be honest, hearing from the doctor herself that it might have been the real end is oddly thrilling.  It’s like setting things up for a suicide attempt, some thing I’ve only almost one once.  It’s titillating.  There is so much grief and pain that comes before an attempt.  I didn’t have those feelings about taking all those pills.  It’s only now, in retrospect, almost a week later, that I’m really allowing myself to have any feelings about it.  I regret to say it’s kind of exciting.  I wish it was just that I felt relieved.  I don’t, not yet.  Maybe when I get my mind wrapped around it I’ll have another experience.

My husband says that I didn’t die, or get very sick, so there is nothing to say or do about it.  I could make myself think about this, or even believe it, but I don’t have that kind of maturity.  Not yet.  

Not working

Last night my medicines didn’t work.

This morning I wasn’t allowed to to work.

I have not been around because mid-morning I’m back to work. 9-12:30. I like my job very much. I don’t love it, but I do love the little boy who God has entrusted me with. (I’m a behavior therapist for autistic two year-olds.) I write mid-morning. The house is empty, and cool because we’ve trapped the night air into our house. Chores are not done because chores are a mid-afternoon thing; I don’t mind a cluttered house. Friends are usually busy. The time is all mine.

Yesterday I ate five cookies for breakfast. It set the tone for the rest of the day. I didn’t feel good, and I ate more junk. It was like I told Weight Watchers to go poop on itself. I feel like I’ve gained weight and I deserve to. I was scattered and kept repeating myself. I made pumpkin enchiladas that were not good. (I am a good cook, usually). I went to bed at seven. My scrambled egg brains were not good for anything. Mrs Medication (me) is disillusioned with the meds I am on. I won’t go off Abilify (takes away racing thoughts) or my ADD meds (a stimulant that enhances the marital bed). Vitamin B Complex is here to stay as well (I don’t lose my car in the rain or anytime else.) I am open to adjusting or adding or dropping the rest but that is probably never going to happen. (I take a lot of meds, rapid cycling bipolar does that to a girl.)

My husband wants me to call my doctor. I called to see if I could bump up my appointment, but the receptionist said she didn’t have anything Friday. (Pdoc only works at my office Mondays and Fridays.) Frustrating.

On the way home today, I kept trying to thing of ways to get the head exploding feeling out of my head. It’s like embers in my head. I understand how people use guns to ameliorate this situation, but I won’t do it. It’s more like a fantasy or meek suggestion than any real suicidal thoughts. One of the driving reasons I have never actually tried to die by suicide is because I fear for the person that might find my body. One time in my life I had an elaborate plan which involved going to a hospital where they were used to finding people dead. I never did it, as badly as I wanted to. I won’t get in to the rest of my plan. Descriptions of suicidal intentions just spur on already sick people and dramatize the situation. Suicide is murder. It’s not the result of selfishness. It’s an act of desperation. That does not give us permission to do it. I include you in the “us”. Don’t. Do. It.

I’ve noticed tugging on my face to be a sign I need an Ativan. So I took one. I also need to exercise but I won’t until B gets home. He wishes I would do it during the day but so far that’s not worked out. I feel like I have things to do. Sometimes the thing is to watch my favorite (and only) tv show, “America’s Top Model”. I am not proud of the fact that I love it.

I took the Ativan and now I feel like my blood is burning. Is this what happens when you mix Ativan with Ten Calorie Dr Pepper? My life is so weird some times.

Mind all over the place – R for content

Shocked? You should be. After all, I am as steady as the sea, I am calm like a hurricane. I am like a simmer. I am a yo-yo dieter. Why shouldn’t I be everywhere at once without even trying?

We are studying the Marriage Builder in our “Growth Group.” One of the first questions was, “What do you want most from your marriage?” My husband wants “consistency.” I don’t even know what that means, even after an explanation. I can’t be consistent. I want to be, sometimes, but most of the time I don’t. I’m like a great big trifle, filled with sponge cake and whipped cream and even jam. No slice is the same. It’s so creamy delicious though, who can resist?

I wish mightyheidi was up. She makes me laugh a lot and I calm down when I get to talk to her. She almost died this year, so it was very scary. Most of all scary for her, I think. It’s hard for those of us with kids to really want to meet our Maker. Before marriage, I was eagerly awaiting heaven. Maybe marriage didn’t change me, but having Small makes me want to bargain. Just ’till she’s 12, 18, has kids of her own. I confess that when the depression breaks in I think about how old she’ll be when I finally do it. Would a 18 year old handle it better than a 15 year old? That’s when I feel my body comes in to a certain obedience to the illness. I can see a little how I’m being irrational and have no responsibility to die, but it almost doesn’t matter. Just for the record, Mrs T, I’m not having these feelings right now, I’m just able to express them right now.

I applied for a job so I am checking my email every time I can pry my family off of this computer. They don’t reply. It is sad because the hours are so perfect. (Have you noticed that the hours are pretty much the only qualification necessary for me to apply for a job?)

Really thinking about a tattoo…. I want my mom to die of shame, that’s why. Also I’m thinking about the whole Тоска concept. It’s me! It’s me! It’s a Russian word: “No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.”

I would get “Тоска” on my hip that way you could say, “Did I really just see a tattoo peeking at me?” or “I didn’t know you had a tattoo?” or nothing because they aren’t checking out my bikini line, which i shave irregularly.

More joy than you can handle? No.

I hate to admit my fantasies. In my up and down mind I think everyone dreams of tropical beaches, drinking mai tais and being rubbed down with coconut oil. That sounds great, but it’s not the way I roll.

I fantasize taking this out and out abusive father, holding him back and letting someone much bigger than him get beaten up. Then, once he falls to the ground I would hit his head over and over again with a 2×4.

I think of how I could run away with Small, or how I could leave permanently without making things horrid for my family or whoever else is involved in our lives.

Aren’t I emotionally healthy? Don’t I forgive people easily? Aren’t I the kind of person who deals with her feelings productively?

I drove the forty-five minutes to the psychiatrist’s office to be reminded she rescheduled and I wouldn’t get to see her today. I burst out in tears. Here I tried to tell myself my beating a fellow brother to death was 1/2 chemical and 1/2 vengeful, really trying to get that under control and I had no one to help me.

And no appointments until October. (It’s 9/19).

Of course, at that point my nose started to gush blood. It’s not uncommon, but that doesn’t make it less of a pain in the arse.

I drove home, decided to let Small eat in the cafeteria, sometime I refused to do my whole life. She loves it because she loves people and wants to spend time with them.

That makes one of us.

Where am I finding joy in this?

Yesterday I went to pick up Small from school. Her little friend, (the only “brown” girl in her class) ran up to see and hugged me first. Small was visibly upset and we talked about why when we got home. She is not really a crier, but she cried when she told me that I hurt her because I didn’t hug her first. “Of course,” I thought, “how else could it be?” On the way to school this morning we tried to figure out the best way to make sure she got the first hug. We decided arms folded across the chest was it. So, later today, I will be hugged by her friend, but not hug her back until I hugged Small first.

I told you before, she is the only second grader that still runs to her mommy after school. From the sadness that she didn’t get the first hug, to the running towards me, all of this gives me joy. I wouldn’t choose sadness, but it is an indicator of how much things are important to her. I am glad that what’s important to her is me.


The only time I almost killed myself it was an accident. I had been diagnosed a few months and the psychiatrist decided I needed to go down and eventually go off one of my medicines. Problem was that was my first effective medicine. It stopped the racing thoughts, the visions of violence and it added no sorrow with it. He wanted me to go off it and I couldn’t. Like a dangerous lover I wouldn’t detach.

I went in for my menagerie of tables, capsules and horse pills and added a few of the newly forbidden pills just for good measure.

Within minutes I could hardly think, focus my eyes or breathe without opening my mouth. Soon after that I walked in around in a stupor. I took long naps. My husband pushed me to do things like take our child to swim lessons, where I was required to get in to the water with the baby, and go to sing alongs. I didn’t want to, but I know he thought it would snap me out of the catatonic state, but it didn’t work. At all. Times like that he becomes paternalistic. I know it bothers my friends and family but if they saw what goes on. Usually his precepts are right, (Even if I ignore them) but in this situation, he was wrong.

When B and I went to the shrink and as soon as the the doc saw me he was distressed. I told him what I did and he told me I was emotionally attached to the drug. He wanted me to go to the hospital, but I wouldn’t. (I’m not against hospitals, but I feel they are for very ill folks, and I did not recognize myself as one.) He finally told B to make me rest, that meant no work, no chores and no childcare.

Although I didn’t recognize it then, I am extremely lucky I didn’t put myself in to a coma, or worse. I knew better than to adjust my medications. Or did I? I don’t remember. I may have thought I knew better than the doctor, after all, it was my brain. Problem is, I didn’t have a cazillion years of medical school and decades of experience treating bipolar. He might know a tad bit more about bipolar than me.

This is the same doctor that hooked me up with Stanford Medical Center where I saw the utmost expert on bipolar in the United States. He really didn’t help. (And, in his report, he called me “overweight”. Shut up, Po Wang) After that my regular shrink arranged for me to go to the Women’s Wellness Clinic, which essentially works with women whose depression is related to her reproductive system. That was not me. (However, I have to add that psychotropic medicines all but banished PMS symptoms from my body.)

The suggested no useful changes, said I was on the right track and spanked my butt on the way out. I felt like there was no hope. I would gaze at people that did not want to be gazed out. Inanimate objects were more understanding. I was so zonked I would drool, so much that I often had to wipe it off the table. I am not kidding.

Two years later. I was dissatisfied with the hew doctor who when I told him of my elaborate suicide plan, said he was concerned and wanted to see me two weeks later.) Feeling that this doctor had no true concern with my health and well-being, I found someone new that took my insurance and within days I walked in to a small practice in a suburb of a slightly bigger town and met a tiny Pakistan-born and educated psychiatrist. She took one look at me and said she could tell I was on psych meds. She prescribed a drug that all but took away the side effects. Within a few weeks, she also diagnosed me with ADD and OCD. I stopped drooling and staring out into space and started being okay.

I added some vitamins (can’t tell you which, I’m not the doctor.) and things have been better. Not perfect. I have breakthroughs and sometimes sleep too much. I have one day a month I overeat, but I’m not overweight any more. I’m being much more careful. I must take my pills on time – even an hour off can put me out of balance. I don’t take drugs not prescribed to me, am careful with OTC drugs and if I add a vitamin I check with my doctor.

I know meds are not the only answer. But, although I have a list of things that have worked for me before and work for me now I believe I will always see medication at the top of this list, including my vitamin supplements. Other things on the list include Bible study and prayer, therapy, writing this blog, making junk food a treat rather than a way of life, yoga, other exercises. It’s an holistic treatment plan that is potentially dangerous only if I deviate from it. I don’t do all of them every day (hello, Cheetos) but they are as important as anything else I do.