It’s been a long time since I truly took time to write. Not just your average Twitter post or Facebook update. REALLY WRITE. Put my thoughts on a page, express myself in a more solid medium. I didn’t leave writing behind consciously, I just began to feel like I couldn’t anymore. I’m a published poet, but I haven’t written a poem in nearly 10 years. None of my ideas were “good enough” or “developed enough” in my head, so I quit putting pen to paper. That being said, this is a long post for a reason. I have a story to tell, but I understand if it’s a little heady or too intense, you don’t have to read this. I’d like you to. I’d like you all to know, to be in the loop, and to see the future I see. But I won’t be disappointed if you don’t or can’t. I understand.
Recently some very big changes have happened in my life. I’ve had a crazy 2016. I’m not putting this out here for sympathy. I don’t need to hear “I’m so sorry” because I’m not sorry at ALL. I’m putting this out here because maybe one of you will read this and realize I understand you in a way you never imagined. Maybe someone can draw strength from knowing I’ve been there and can reach out to me. Please do. I’m here. 24/7, 365. My phone is on, I do my best to always answer. I don’t care if it’s 3am and you need someone to talk to. I’m your girl, I’m here, I care, I WANT to listen, and no, you aren’t bothering me so stop thinking that and pick up the damn phone.
I spent the last 2 years angry. VERY angry. I’ve been negative and miserable to be around. I pushed people away in an attempt to make them hate me so that when I was gone it would be easier. Yes, I planned to be gone. For good. In April I finally gave up on ever hoping to be free of the debilitating chronic pain I’ve dealt with for 18 years, and I tried to take my own life. I weighed all the options, debated for weeks, wrote my suicide note over and over in my head. The “final straw” wasn’t anything memorable or important, I just woke up one morning and chose. I waited for my husband to go to work, I went to see my therapist, I came home. I stood in my bathroom and downed every prescription sleeping pill I had. Roughly 5 months supply. I took them with Gin and Orange Soda, cuz fuck Gin, that shit is NASTY. Whoever thought “Pine Tee” would make an excellent drink was crazier than me. I wrote my note, and a 3x5 index card explaining exactly what I’d done, and then I held the flowers I bought for Skyler, laid down in my bathtub and waited. The last thing I thought about was Wade and how sad he’d be, but I couldn’t stay on this Earth for anyone else anymore and I had no will to continue for myself. I never doubted my decision, I was never scared, I didn’t cry or call for help. Eventually, I fell asleep.
Skyler (my best friend from High School who had committed suicide our Junior year) and Alicia (my eldest sister who passed away when I was little) came to me. Skyler held my hands and Alicia touched my face, neither said a word. They looked at me with such love, knowing it wasn’t time for me to join them. I remember very little of the next 24 hours. I remember seeing Skyler’s flowers on the seat next to me, I remember Wade’s voice frantically talking to me, I remember an EMT asking questions, and then nothing. When I woke up, I was confused. Laying in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV, and Wade staring at me intently. The first thing I said was “Apparently I didn’t take enough.” It wasn’t a joke, it was fact. When the doctor came in, he told me they considered my attempt to be serious, not a cry for help, as I had ingested what would normally be a lethal dose. I had been out for 4 hours before Wade found me, and by the time I’d gotten to the hospital there was nothing to do but wait. I had digested everything, they never pumped my stomach or gave me charcoal. I had no organ damage, no signs of complications. I simply metabolized everything and woke up.
The next 5 days I detoxed. I wasn’t allowed to have any of the medication I’d been on except for allergies. When I entered the hospital I was taking roughly 20 pills a day, a dangerous cocktail of anti-psychotics and pain killers which I was taking exactly as prescribed. I’m not going to sugar coat this, it was terrible. I could smell the chemicals leaving my body, I shook and had lucid dreams. I didn’t eat for 4 days. I threw up, I was constantly nauseous. My first “meal” was tapioca pudding and apple juice. Eventually they released me to a mental hospital for further evaluation and another 6 days. When I got to the mental facility I was terrified. I hid in a corner and panicked. My first 24 hours there were the most intense rollercoaster of emotions I’ve ever experienced. I had forgotten what it was like to feel anything but pain and anger. I didn’t sleep the first night, it was freezing cold and I couldn’t calm down. The next morning I sat with the other patients and participated in the classes they offered. We did yoga and I bawled the entire time. It was an immense flood of emotions, sheer relief and amazement. Afterward, I went in my room and cried some more. Not because I was sad, or lonely, or scared, or angry, but because I was HAPPY. I couldn’t remember the last time I had truly felt sustained JOY. The next 5 days were great. I made some awesome friends, I met with a new psychiatrist who re-diagnosed me and put me on a reasonable amount of medication. Lo and behold, I’m not Bi-Polar after all, I should never have been on anti-psychotics, my physical pain is caused by events from my childhood causing PTSD. I’m not crazy. I’m curable. I’m OKAY.
I went home early May, and began the process of starting my life over. I could think clearly again, I wasn’t angry or irrational, I had finally come out the other side of “crazy” a totally new person. By July I had realized I couldn’t stay in my marriage anymore. Wade is my friend, one of my best. I care for him deeply, I want good things for him, and I will be forever thankful to have shared part of my life with him. But at the end of the day, we’re just friends. We aren’t partners anymore. I couldn’t have asked for a truer friend through everything I’ve been through this year. He was at my bedside every day in the hospital, and he visited for every hour he could in the mental facility. He never judged me or treated me with malice. But I’m not in love with him. I haven’t been for a while. We both deserve to be with people who don’t just care for us, but who are IN love with us. So I asked for a divorce. He’s been phenomenal, more than just cordial, and an amazing help. We still talk and laugh, and I still help him find things in the apartment we once shared. I’m back in Spokane now, with my parents, and I’m happy. I hurt less, I panic less, and I’ve found someone new.
Yes, it seems fast, but I’ve been ready for more than a year to do this. My heart has been my own for awhile now, and I’m ready to share it again. I’m blessed enough to be able to do this with an amazing man who I’ve known for a few years. We just became “Facebook Official” now that I’ve met his family and passed the “Sister Test” (a test I usual GIVE, not TAKE!) Chris understands me in a way I didn’t think anyone could. Since Skyler’s death, I had resigned myself to believing no one could connect with me like he did. Once again, Skyler visited me, he took my hand and put it in Chris’ then smiled and hugged us both.
I don’t know what the future holds, but I’m not worried. All will happen as it should, and I’m not going to fret anymore. I’ve got new doctors, and a new outlook on life. I’m surrounded by friends and family. I’m hardly medicated and in the next 6 months I may not be at all anymore. I’m HAPPY. Truly, exquisitely, beautifully, happy. Nothing is going to get in my way, I’ve been born anew, rising from the ashes, a bright, glorious jet of Phoenix Fire.
