I don't remember much about the "first new day", but I do remember waking that morning, in a busy emergency/trauma ward, by my Dad who was holding up my toki pounamu in his hand. I vividly remember that. And my feelings were at war. What did I do? Why? Did I deserve to wear the toki again - it means strength. Why does my arm hurt? Oh. Yeah...
Cue scene.
And it feels exactly like that part in the movie, when the protagonist has the dawning realisation that something bad has happened, and the camera zooms in onto their face, staring off in the distance? You can literally see the lightbulb flick on above their head. Yes, that. And it's literally an oh fuck moment.
I find that I actually haven't really been entirely honest about what happened in those first 24 hours, but sometimes, I don't want to be. That weekend, I had borrowed my parents campervan, and stayed two nights at a local motor camp by a beach. For time out for myself. And also because I was, at this time, in between medications. My GP had decided, for whatsoever reason, that I needed to stop the med I was on straight away, leave it for five days (yes, FIVE DAYS) before starting the new medication, Venlafaxine, which I am still on. In hindsight, this just set those final few crumbling blocks tumbling down from underneath me. I had friends, who I consider my family, come to visit me at the motor camp and we went for a walk in the forest, and bounced about on the massive bouncing pillow on the camp grounds. I really enjoyed myself, but I was still quiet, numb. One of those friends was also my ex boyfriend. The one whom I ended our relationship with, badly, just a couple weeks prior. But he was still supportive, if devastated, for and of me. It was hard, though. For us both. I hadn't really grieved about the loss of what we had, because my mind was just too crowded with other things and feelings.
But the dam finally broke the next day. I cried, and cried, and cried, while sitting in the campervan. I grieved over how stupid I was, over my actions when it came to the end of our relationship, of how I was feeling, of the fact that I was actually, officially, going crazy. Once I'd finally stopped crying, I was essentially on autopilot. I packed up, started the van, drove home. Parked up outside my house, went inside, told my ex (the father of my twins, he'd stayed with them while I was away) to get kids ready and I'd take him home. I actually don't remember much of that drive at all, or coming back home, buying the alcohol on the way. I'd bought two 4-packs of 7% Woodstock, and a bottle of wine. It's a lot of alcohol. Strangely, while I can tell you those facts, I cannot recall stopping at the bottle store and purchasing them.
As for the rest of the day and evening, I don't remember much other than the occasional flashbacks. Unfortunately, my messenger held all the evidence. And it was painful going through my chats in the days and weeks following. Especially as I had a friend (one of those who came to visit the day prior) who was in hospital herself with a slipped disc, heavily medicated and still in pain, and I was literally telling her that I wanted to die, that I'd cut myself. She was completely helpless from her hospital bed. I haven't yet forgiven myself for doing that to her and what she must have felt that night. I love her so much, yet I also feel ashamed for doing that to her. And then the chat window with my ex boyfriend. Let's not go there.
When you go through a complete mental breakdown, it doesn't just affect you. It has a far reaching impact, on all those around you, who love you. If I had indeed taken my life - and I know I would have, had I not sought and got help that day and night - I hate to imagine what that impact would have been. Especially on my children. Ironically, I was prescribed zopiclone by my doctor a few weeks before, to help me sleep. Because they're such a strong drug, I wasn't keen to take them. In the few days leading up to my Breakdown, I was thinking of them constantly, not quite realising why. Then, eventually, I dumped them down the bathroom basin drain. This action probably inadvertently saved my own life. I would have taken them in the midst of my crisis, and it is actually quite terrifying to think about.
I once had somebody tell me that I was lucky. Because I didn't end my life. Lucky? I don't know about that. I still have occasions in which I absolutely detest myself, for feeling this way, for being who I am. And I hate Depression, that caged animal, the insidious bitch. She is always going to be there, I feel.
So.
There was a Before. Then there is an After. This is my After.
Cue scene.
And it feels exactly like that part in the movie, when the protagonist has the dawning realisation that something bad has happened, and the camera zooms in onto their face, staring off in the distance? You can literally see the lightbulb flick on above their head. Yes, that. And it's literally an oh fuck moment.
I find that I actually haven't really been entirely honest about what happened in those first 24 hours, but sometimes, I don't want to be. That weekend, I had borrowed my parents campervan, and stayed two nights at a local motor camp by a beach. For time out for myself. And also because I was, at this time, in between medications. My GP had decided, for whatsoever reason, that I needed to stop the med I was on straight away, leave it for five days (yes, FIVE DAYS) before starting the new medication, Venlafaxine, which I am still on. In hindsight, this just set those final few crumbling blocks tumbling down from underneath me. I had friends, who I consider my family, come to visit me at the motor camp and we went for a walk in the forest, and bounced about on the massive bouncing pillow on the camp grounds. I really enjoyed myself, but I was still quiet, numb. One of those friends was also my ex boyfriend. The one whom I ended our relationship with, badly, just a couple weeks prior. But he was still supportive, if devastated, for and of me. It was hard, though. For us both. I hadn't really grieved about the loss of what we had, because my mind was just too crowded with other things and feelings.
But the dam finally broke the next day. I cried, and cried, and cried, while sitting in the campervan. I grieved over how stupid I was, over my actions when it came to the end of our relationship, of how I was feeling, of the fact that I was actually, officially, going crazy. Once I'd finally stopped crying, I was essentially on autopilot. I packed up, started the van, drove home. Parked up outside my house, went inside, told my ex (the father of my twins, he'd stayed with them while I was away) to get kids ready and I'd take him home. I actually don't remember much of that drive at all, or coming back home, buying the alcohol on the way. I'd bought two 4-packs of 7% Woodstock, and a bottle of wine. It's a lot of alcohol. Strangely, while I can tell you those facts, I cannot recall stopping at the bottle store and purchasing them.
As for the rest of the day and evening, I don't remember much other than the occasional flashbacks. Unfortunately, my messenger held all the evidence. And it was painful going through my chats in the days and weeks following. Especially as I had a friend (one of those who came to visit the day prior) who was in hospital herself with a slipped disc, heavily medicated and still in pain, and I was literally telling her that I wanted to die, that I'd cut myself. She was completely helpless from her hospital bed. I haven't yet forgiven myself for doing that to her and what she must have felt that night. I love her so much, yet I also feel ashamed for doing that to her. And then the chat window with my ex boyfriend. Let's not go there.
When you go through a complete mental breakdown, it doesn't just affect you. It has a far reaching impact, on all those around you, who love you. If I had indeed taken my life - and I know I would have, had I not sought and got help that day and night - I hate to imagine what that impact would have been. Especially on my children. Ironically, I was prescribed zopiclone by my doctor a few weeks before, to help me sleep. Because they're such a strong drug, I wasn't keen to take them. In the few days leading up to my Breakdown, I was thinking of them constantly, not quite realising why. Then, eventually, I dumped them down the bathroom basin drain. This action probably inadvertently saved my own life. I would have taken them in the midst of my crisis, and it is actually quite terrifying to think about.
I once had somebody tell me that I was lucky. Because I didn't end my life. Lucky? I don't know about that. I still have occasions in which I absolutely detest myself, for feeling this way, for being who I am. And I hate Depression, that caged animal, the insidious bitch. She is always going to be there, I feel.
So.
There was a Before. Then there is an After. This is my After.
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