the more i see the less i know the more i like to let it go
First, some anger:
I wish my mom would die in a fucking fire. I am so fucking pissed off at my dad right now for calling her. Calling EVERY ONE. There is nothing I hate more than people seeing me like that. I hated that, I hated it so much. My uncle walked in before the gastric lavage and then left, and then my mom walked in- not alone- but accompanied by her FRIEND after the lavage.
Then she came today to pick me up, even if I had requested my uncle come get me. And of course, I get a nice array of compliments: "You're selfish." "If you really loved your father..." "I never did any of those things to you!" "Why don't I just get a gun and shoot us both?" "I lost most of my memory when I really actually did try to kill myself, unlike you."
I told her I hope she has a heart attack.
Now, some storytelling:
I don't even know what to say right now. I just have absolutely no idea. I took a bunch of sleeping pills, with alcohol, codeine, smoked a few cigarettes over the course of a couple hours. The pills started to take effect and then the ambulance shortly came.
I had sinus tachycardia, which was kind of weird, because when I was in the ER department, my heart monitor kept beeping every time it got too high. I was also beginning to experience visual and auditory hallucinations. The auditory ones came first, the visuals later. They weren't flat out vivid things, just seeing patterns moving in the woodwork and walls.
This one nurse annoyed me. Or maybe she annoyed me because she was the first one to tell me they were going to pump my stomach. She spoke to me very patronizingly, like a five year old. "We're gonna pump yer belleh!" Seriously. That's what her speech sounded like. "That's what we do for people who take too many pills." I wanted to say: "I'm not five," but then realised she might snap back with "Might as well be."
The other nurse was fucking bi-polar or something. She had a real attitude with me from the start, but when they were finally performing the lavage, she started to give me words of sympathy ("look, it's not your fault you kept grabbing the tube and pulling it out- it's just a natural reflex.")
You'd think pumping your stomach would be easier the second time around, but it's worse. It's worse because you know what the fuck is going to happen. The last time I had one, was my first time getting my stomach pumped. I didn't know what to expect. I only yanked the tube out twice before they got it down.
This time I screamed and cried and pleaded for them not to do it, and I fought them like all hell. I must have pulled the damn thing out at least five times. They even asked the doctor three times if there were any other options but he demanded I have the procedure done. That's how scared I was.
Eventually they decided they couldn't get down the normal tube, because my gag reflexes were too in tact, despite me being a little disoriented and out of it (although they described me as being "alert". I sure as hell did not feel alert.) So they went to get a nasogastric tube instead- it goes through your nose, down your throat, and into your stomach.
Then I yanked that one out about 5 more times, before they finally got restraints and strapped me down. OK, tube goes down now! For some reason this was much worse than the last time, despite the fact it was a smaller tube. I kept choking and choking and gagging and spitting up (blood, I might add.)
My stomach also looked to be filled with blood. I don't know if this was any different from a year ago when I had my stomach pumped, because I didn't look at what they were pumping out. But I couldn't help but see it last night because they had my head tilted down for the NG tube. I was staring right into the bucket where he kept emptying the plunger/syringe filled with my stomach fluid.
Luckily they saved me the pain of having to drink charcoal and administered it using the lavage. While this meant I was choking on plastic in my throat a little bit longer (especially considering the tube was small and the charcoal was thick) I think it was worth it not to drink that crap again. (And then throw it up.)
So blahblahblah, then they put me in the Critical Care Unit, and my heart rate finally went down, and I stopped having hallucinations, and I fell asleep somewhere, but not very long. A psychiatrist visited me this morning and termed me as being "treatment resistant". He impressed me, I have to say. He said that drugs were overrated (something I've never heard out of a psychiatrist's mouth) but told me that he normally works in geriatrics, with people who have had problems all their life, so he has experience with treatment resistant patients.
He prescribed me Abilify to take with my Wellbutrin, saying that the studies of it he had been really impressed with. He started me off on a very, very low dose, and told me that if I have any side effects to just stop taking it immediately.
He said: "You know, you seem like a pretty pleasant person, really. I think there's more sarcasm there than actual hate or hatefulness." I think he's been the first psychiatrist/psychologist/therapist/whatever to ever visit me in a hospital-type setting that I actually talked to. I mean, I didn't like, confess every thing and couldn't stop talking. But I talked. I talked more than I normally would have.
House marathon is on. I am going to curl up in bed and watch it. My nose hurts. God damned tube. My stomach is also irritated as fuck, I feel sick- but I guess that's expected when you overdose and get a gastric lavage.
P.S. I'm not mad at any one who called the police, my father, the ambulance, or any other forms of help.
I wish my mom would die in a fucking fire. I am so fucking pissed off at my dad right now for calling her. Calling EVERY ONE. There is nothing I hate more than people seeing me like that. I hated that, I hated it so much. My uncle walked in before the gastric lavage and then left, and then my mom walked in- not alone- but accompanied by her FRIEND after the lavage.
Then she came today to pick me up, even if I had requested my uncle come get me. And of course, I get a nice array of compliments: "You're selfish." "If you really loved your father..." "I never did any of those things to you!" "Why don't I just get a gun and shoot us both?" "I lost most of my memory when I really actually did try to kill myself, unlike you."
I told her I hope she has a heart attack.
Now, some storytelling:
I don't even know what to say right now. I just have absolutely no idea. I took a bunch of sleeping pills, with alcohol, codeine, smoked a few cigarettes over the course of a couple hours. The pills started to take effect and then the ambulance shortly came.
I had sinus tachycardia, which was kind of weird, because when I was in the ER department, my heart monitor kept beeping every time it got too high. I was also beginning to experience visual and auditory hallucinations. The auditory ones came first, the visuals later. They weren't flat out vivid things, just seeing patterns moving in the woodwork and walls.
This one nurse annoyed me. Or maybe she annoyed me because she was the first one to tell me they were going to pump my stomach. She spoke to me very patronizingly, like a five year old. "We're gonna pump yer belleh!" Seriously. That's what her speech sounded like. "That's what we do for people who take too many pills." I wanted to say: "I'm not five," but then realised she might snap back with "Might as well be."
The other nurse was fucking bi-polar or something. She had a real attitude with me from the start, but when they were finally performing the lavage, she started to give me words of sympathy ("look, it's not your fault you kept grabbing the tube and pulling it out- it's just a natural reflex.")
You'd think pumping your stomach would be easier the second time around, but it's worse. It's worse because you know what the fuck is going to happen. The last time I had one, was my first time getting my stomach pumped. I didn't know what to expect. I only yanked the tube out twice before they got it down.
This time I screamed and cried and pleaded for them not to do it, and I fought them like all hell. I must have pulled the damn thing out at least five times. They even asked the doctor three times if there were any other options but he demanded I have the procedure done. That's how scared I was.
Eventually they decided they couldn't get down the normal tube, because my gag reflexes were too in tact, despite me being a little disoriented and out of it (although they described me as being "alert". I sure as hell did not feel alert.) So they went to get a nasogastric tube instead- it goes through your nose, down your throat, and into your stomach.
Then I yanked that one out about 5 more times, before they finally got restraints and strapped me down. OK, tube goes down now! For some reason this was much worse than the last time, despite the fact it was a smaller tube. I kept choking and choking and gagging and spitting up (blood, I might add.)
My stomach also looked to be filled with blood. I don't know if this was any different from a year ago when I had my stomach pumped, because I didn't look at what they were pumping out. But I couldn't help but see it last night because they had my head tilted down for the NG tube. I was staring right into the bucket where he kept emptying the plunger/syringe filled with my stomach fluid.
Luckily they saved me the pain of having to drink charcoal and administered it using the lavage. While this meant I was choking on plastic in my throat a little bit longer (especially considering the tube was small and the charcoal was thick) I think it was worth it not to drink that crap again. (And then throw it up.)
So blahblahblah, then they put me in the Critical Care Unit, and my heart rate finally went down, and I stopped having hallucinations, and I fell asleep somewhere, but not very long. A psychiatrist visited me this morning and termed me as being "treatment resistant". He impressed me, I have to say. He said that drugs were overrated (something I've never heard out of a psychiatrist's mouth) but told me that he normally works in geriatrics, with people who have had problems all their life, so he has experience with treatment resistant patients.
He prescribed me Abilify to take with my Wellbutrin, saying that the studies of it he had been really impressed with. He started me off on a very, very low dose, and told me that if I have any side effects to just stop taking it immediately.
He said: "You know, you seem like a pretty pleasant person, really. I think there's more sarcasm there than actual hate or hatefulness." I think he's been the first psychiatrist/psychologist/therapist/whatever to ever visit me in a hospital-type setting that I actually talked to. I mean, I didn't like, confess every thing and couldn't stop talking. But I talked. I talked more than I normally would have.
House marathon is on. I am going to curl up in bed and watch it. My nose hurts. God damned tube. My stomach is also irritated as fuck, I feel sick- but I guess that's expected when you overdose and get a gastric lavage.
P.S. I'm not mad at any one who called the police, my father, the ambulance, or any other forms of help.