Everyday Stranger

The Lunatic Luncheon Club

Exactly one year ago today, I tried to kill myself.

This post is very long, but here is a preface about it: I have a body of writing on my hard drive that is about 510+ pages long, and all rather biographical. I started writing about 5 years ago, and haven't really stopped. But because it was all so personal, I have never done anything about it.

I wrote this as part of a larger body of my thoughts, experiences and feelings after trying to top myself nearly one year ago. I guess I don't really think it's publishable since it's a bit down and a bit close to my heart...so I give it up for my blog since...well... I think it has a home here. I have been more open about my suicide attempt here than with my family.

I have to be honest here-sometimes I wished I had succeeded.

I wrote this during the end of January, 2003. It was a few days after I was home from the hospital, home from the night I tried to kill myself. It is the true account of what happened to me that night in the hospital, complete with all my thoughts and feelings.

It's a long one, and I'm sorry about that, but maybe it makes up for my silence yesterday.

-H.

-Oh, and for the original suicide telling, please see here.

************************

Sitting upright on the gurney, an IV in my hand, an EKG strapped to my chest, and Partner Unit looking like he is in hell, I realize that I am not in control of this situation. I blew it. The nurse comes in and looks me in the eye.

“Hi Helen.” She says. “I’m Marie.”
I nod my greeting back.
“Helen, can you tell me why you did this?” she asks quietly.

Ah, the big question. As though I had any kind of answer that would be appropriate for anyone. What answer would be acceptable to people? That I have had enough? That I am tired? That I am carrying deadly bacteria that would eliminate mankind and must thus consider myself the sacrificial victim?

The tears start up again. “No, I honestly can’t. Why does everyone keep asking me that? There is no why. I just did. I am just tired. Something inside me kind of broke, and I just couldn’t take this. I just did.”

She nods, writing on a tablet. My own personal Rosetta Stone of sanity. To be preserved across time as the moment that Helen, insignificant Helen, finally lost control. Years from now someone would read it and need to look up “fruit loop” in some archaic dictionary. I look at Partner Unit, sitting there, so tall in the chair. There are deep lines in his face that I have never seen before, lines that I have put there. In that moment, I realize the worst thing in the entire world would have been if he had come home to find me dead. It would be unforgivable. Of all the things in the world that I could have done to him-cheating on him, selling all of his possessions on e-bay, serving him macaroni and cheese from a powdered mix-this is the one act that could never, ever be resolved, and could never, ever be excused.

The most atrocious crime I could ever commit would be to make someone who loves me face that. And I almost did that to him. He raises his eyes, to look at me, and he smiles a bit.

Suddenly, I realize how close I came to ruining everything and losing him. And I realize that after I make myself better, I need to make him better. Because, unlike me, the only thing he ever did wrong was love me. Maybe I don’t deserve to be loved like this by him, maybe I don’t love him the way he loves me, but he is taking his chances, has thrown caution to the wind, and indicated to fate the person he wants on his team. And I need to do a better job of carrying the team to victory. Maybe we will win, maybe we won’t-but I let my captain down. And I have to fix it.

Another nurse walks in and hands a large black bottle to the head nurse, who starts to shake it. I stop trying to cover the gaping mouths that I have left on my wrists, further attempts to ensure that the sweet smell doesn’t pass me by. She catches me looking warily at the bottle, and smiles.

“This,” she says, “is activated charcoal. The medication you took is toxic in the dosage that you took it in, and this charcoal will bind to the medication and help break it down. You will need to drink the whole bottle.”

She unscrews the lid and unceremoniously hands it to me. I take a sniff, and get a scent of something almost metallic, and harsh. One sip later, and I am one hundred percent convinced that I will make damn sure to never take too many pills again.

Or else to next time be confident that I do.

Later, I find myself rocking back and forth on the edge of the chair, the nurse looking sympathetically at me. I don’t know why I am rocking…the movement is soothing and disturbing, simultaneously. Tears keep rolling down my face, and nothing I say or do seems to be able to stop them from appearing. I recklessly wipe them off my face with a hand, bundled tightly into the sleeve of my sweater. I can’t stop hiding the slashes on my wrists. I don’t want anyone to see them, or know about them. If I just keep them hidden, maybe I can make sure that they won’t look at me like I’m crazy. Maybe I can keep my troubles to myself.

I had been taken to the psychiatric intensive care ward, to be admitted for one night. An orderly led me on the way, through a maze of concrete tunnels underground, beneath the hospital that reminded me of a sad juvenile delinquent film with Brad Pitt in it. I wondered if I would meet the same fate (I guess not, as I am not a twelve-year-old male in the Bronx). Thick, heavy pipes laced the ceiling, ending abruptly above thick steel doors that were not labeled, and looked like the kind of doors you would find on a submarine. The orderly is trying to keep up the small talk, but all I hear is background noise, gibberish.

We stop at a bank of elevators, and take one up three floors. We get off and turn in front of another one of those submarine type doors, and the orderly removes absolutely the most amazing key ring I have ever seen-I had no ideas that many keys could be found in the whole city, let alone in one hospital. He unlocks the door and ushers me inside. I find I am in a small vestibule, and once he shuts and locks the door behind us, he unlocks the other one in front of us. This one has a curtained window over the top half. A window with bars.
Which puts me here, in a waiting room full of rattan furniture and more chairs than I have ever seen in any hospital area ever. Orderlies come and go like worker ants, checking to see if the queen is content. The nurse, however, never moves.

She continues to stare kindly at me, asking me reassuring questions in soothing tones. I can’t really make out what she’s saying, the only thing I know is that I have never felt so tired in my entire life. I actually ache inside my eyelids, as though the swelling and the need for sleep will threaten to sprain them.

“Helen.” She asks. And this one I hear. “What do you want?”
I look at her, and open my thick mouth. “I want to sleep.” I whisper. “I want to sleep, and I don’t want to wake up once with nightmares or anxiety.”
She nods. “Do you often do that.”
I nod. “Every night.”
“In this place, tonight, you will be safe. You will only sleep, and no one will disturb you. The medication we give you will make you calm, and make you sleep all night. I promise.”

In that moment, I have never felt a feeling of such deep and utter gratitude. I would have wrapped my arms around her and cried out my thanks, if I had been capable of moving. I felt as though someone finally understood my aching need.

I turn to Partner Unit and hold him tight. I can’t remember the last time that I fit so well into the curves of him. Sometime before I lost my mind, I guess. Sometime back when I was still able to function. I remember being held like that by him, and I remember wanting it, too. What had happened?

He places a big hand on the side of my face. “It’ll be ok, Helen. I will be back first thing in the morning for you. Tonight, you will sleep and feel a bit better in the morning.”

I look at him and ache. “Promise me you won’t make me stay here. Promise you will come get me out of here tomorrow.” I whisper.

He kisses my forehead. “I promise.” He whispers back. He hands me an overnight bag that he had packed for me, and walks away.

The nurse reaches out her hand, and takes my hand in it. We walk solemnly to the bedroom, where two orderlies await. With a glance to me, they reach for my bag and open it, and start removing my belongings. Almost everything is deemed dangerous or prohibited, until at the end the only thing I have left is my toothbrush, a change of clothes, a hairbrush, and a book. Whatever. Like I could kill myself with my MD player.

Another nurse walks in and hands me a small plastic cup, with two pills in it. I down them, chased with a glass of water that had also been produced. I am led into a dark room, where an old woman lies in the other bed, watching me. She has draped her clothes over every chair in the room, and I find, rather than touch her belongings or be burdened with the hindrance of conversation, I drop my things on the floor next to me.

The room smells of old people. It is her scent, a scent bordering on sickening sweetness, of talcum powder and ancient sweat. I hate that smell, to me it’s the smell of decrepit aging. I want to dash the corners of the room in rubbing alcohol to take away the scent, but since I am not even allowed to have soap, I am sure that’s on the banned list.

The orderlies go and I lay down, begging, aching, yearning for sleep to overtake me. To fill my head and eyes with blackness, no visions, no dreams, no other sense of reality. I feel my body relax, and scrunch up next to the surprisingly comfortable pillow and hear the rubber sheets beneath me squeak against the gurney.

And, of course, I can’t fall asleep.

The old woman starts snoring. Loudly. And she wheezes and laughs and talks in her sleep as well. I try shutting my eyes, tuning out the world. My stomach is bloated and thick feeling, full of pills and charcoal. I cannot sleep.

I go padding out into the hallway, looking for the doctor. I am nervous-is this the part where a number of orderlies charge me, thinking I am dangerous, and lock me in a padded cell? Or do they try to do horrible and disgusting things to me? Or just pat me on my head and look at me like I am simple?

They do none of these. Instead, I am led to a quiet and empty room to allow me to sleep in peace. Scarily enough, this is the room for the ones who go into violent psychotic episodes. The beds all have thick leather straps, the windows are barred and the room stripped of any furniture save the three beds. The nurse reassures me that I am only here for the chance to sleep, they will not strap me in and don’t think I am dangerous.

They turn out the light. I lay down, and fall asleep almost instantly.

I am awoken a few hours later. A nurse stands at the door telling me there is breakfast ready in the main room, if I want any. My brain protests, begging me to go back to sleep. Tells me that it is still under the influence of the medication, and to lay back down. My tongue, on the other hand, takes a sucker punch at my brain and demands some juice to get the glue-like feeling out of my mouth. Mouth wins. I pull the thick sheet-like robe over me and totter out into the light hallway, feeling dizzy and weird from all of the medication. I hold onto the wall for support, feeling the palm of my hand slap against the cold wall as weave my way towards the main hall.

When I get there, the TV is on. It’s the weather guy, predicting more snow. A look out the big window confirms he may possibly know what he is talking about, as the flurries come down. A couch full of people turns their head immediately and looks at me, and I realize that they are all nurses and orderlies, checking me out. I stumble over to a table laden with food, and realize there is no juice. I take a half cup of coffee and look for the milk, but I see that the red plastic mug with the milk is empty.

I can’t drink coffee without milk.

I stand there holding the half cup of coffee, not sure what to do. A man comes up, takes some coffee, and says hello. I look at him in horror, then put the cup down and hurry back to my psychotic bedroom. A nurse stops me on the way, introduces himself, and tries to shake my hand. I do so, realizing that the cuts on my wrists are obvious. I squelch myself against the wall, stuff my hands in the arms of my sweater, and hurry back to bed.

As sleep begins to tumble back over me, I realize that I am acting like a madman.

It must be this place.

I wake up a bit latter and see a fuzzy silhouette standing in the door, looking at me. It is a tall man, with dark hair and a green sweater. When he sees that I am awake, he bolts out of the room, and I see his hospital bracelet as he grabs the frame of the door.

Great. A patient has been standing here watching me. I shudder slightly, close my eyes, and, feeling the weight of my eyelids, fall asleep again.

A while later I am woken up by a man holding a piece of paper and a handful of cash. It’s an orderly, and he looks closely at me.

“Jane?” he asks.
I sit up, rubbing my hand over my face. “What?” I reply.
“Jane?” he replies, looking at me.
“Jane is my middle name. I go by Helen.” I reply.
He nods. “I’m doing the shopping now. Do you want anything? Do you have any cash?”
Head fuzzy. I am clearly not catching what he is throwing at me. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What are you doing?”
“Twice a day we come through and offer to pick things up that you don’t have here. Magazines, cigarettes, that kind of thing. Do you want anything, do you have any money with you?”
I shake my head. “My wallet is at home, but I don’t need anything. I am going home today anyway.”
He gives me a closed smile, and I feel a sharp stab of fear tweak its way into my stomach. I stand up. “I am going home today.” I state again. He looks at me. “I am going home today?” I say a third time, but this time it squeaks out in the form of a question.
“The doctor will be seeing you in about ten minutes. How about you get ready to meet her?” he asks kindly.

Oh God. I may be stuck here. Trapped. I hurriedly brush my hair and teeth and head out into the main room.

There are many more people there now than there were at the failed coffee expedition. Patients this time, and at least two nurses per patient. In one corner, an old woman is painting pictures that one could expect to see in a portfolio done by a seven year old. A girl is going up and down the hallway, asking every person she sees if they have a cigarette. This must be routine, since every single person shakes their heard and replies “Sorry, Martine.” In a chair in a far corner a man is huddled into himself, barely a lump, watching the TV. Another man is rocking back and forth, trying to tear apart a newspaper.
I am waiting for Roger Rabbit to run across the hallway at any minute now. Or someone to come out and yell “Cut!” and all of the patients would then light up a cigarette and talk about the latest in the actor’s union. Surely this can’t be real.

I wish the walls could swallow me up. Then this would all go away. My wrists sting, and my stomach still feels packed full of concrete. At least I have missed meals for the past 24 hours, I could hope to be a bit thinner soon. Attempted suicide may become the new fad diet, activated charcoal the new diet nutrient. Forget those shakes in a can!

I walk into the doctor’s room, accompanied by an enormous intern who looks like he couldn’t decide whether to go to med school or a gym. He nods at me in greeting, sitting down across from me. “I’m Tom.” He says slowly.

He must think I am really thick. Hey man-I’m crazy, not ignorant. But then again maybe it’s a good thing he said it slowly-if he talked fast then I would totally expect the white rabbit to come tearing through. The gray matter is not cooperating so well. Another man walks in, shorter but well-built.

Tom nods towards him. “Helen, this is Manuel. He is a handler, and is here for the safety of all involved.”
I look at Tom, and feel the corner of my mouth go up. “So, he’s here in case I try to rush you guys, or something like that, feel the urge to do a round or two?”
Tom stares closely at me. “Are you currently feeling any hostile or violent tendencies, Helen?”
Oops. Wrong audience. “No, sorry, Tom, I’m not. Bad joke. Sorry.”
He nods. Seconds later, the head doctor comes in, a woman in the early-forties or so. Well-dressed, with sparkly gold earrings. She reaches out a hand. “Hi, Helen, I’m Susan.”

She sits down and adjusts the numerous papers on her lap, and tucks her hair behind her ear. I am very conscious that I am in my pajamas, and that I am not wearing any underwear. I try to look sane.

“Helen, can you tell me why you did this?”
Oh for fuck’s sake. I thought of anyone she would know not to ask crap like that.
I look at her, and feel the bags under my eyes leaping out. “I don’t know.” I replied, trying to keep my voice even. “Why does everyone ask me that?”
She looks at me in her “I’m analyzing you” psychiatrist-look. I wonder how I am measuring up. She sighs, and folds the ends of her fingers over the papers in her lap. “Helen, I’m afraid that you have been assessed as a real danger to yourself. We think that you may be, based on info you gave the nurse and our talks here, manic-depressive, however more tests are needed. We are ordering you into hospital care.”

I feel my heart stop.

**************************

They were wrong, I am not manic-depressive. I do have another problem, which I may talk about someday, but in the meantime...just remember-life isn't ours to choose if we want to walk away from or not.

It's as Rob Part said-Life is hard but the only game in town.

Batter up.

-H.

PS-It's official. Luuk is gone, may he rest in peace. I hope that his last known host, Jean, is ok. If people are interested, I can launch a Luuk II campaign. Let me know. Poor Luuk-he was a really special little guy.

PPS-to my anonymous benefactor, you absolutely made my day. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. You brought a much-needed smile to my face :) Thank you, thank you, thank you.

UPDATE-I have been denied Swedish citizenship due to a glitch in the visas I have had-apparently Sweden doesn't count my first two years here as being here, since I had a work permit, not a residence permit. I am utterly bereft now, and working like mad to secure a work visa. If I do not get one, I lose Dream Job.

And all my dreams with it.

Posted by Everydaystranger at January 27, 2004 07:51 AM | TrackBack