I've never posted before, so please bear with me.
On March 1, I overdosed on a schedule 1 drug (I will not say what; it is incredibly difficult to obtain and therefore unhelpful to know the name) that 100% definitely should have killed me, according to almost a month of research. I am a small female (bmi 17.9) and took it on an empty stomach after a week of barely eating due to severe depression.
In the moment, as per the nature of the drug, it was a truly beautiful experience, almost euphoric. I was soaring dizzily above myself, writing nostalgically in my journal, happy to be drifting off to a better place.
I don't remember falling asleep.
What I do remember is waking up in the ER, tied to a bed. Moniters everywhere. All sorts of tubes and wires stuck to me. I was alone and scared. My bed was pushed into a different room and I was dragged onto a table for some kind of scan, then dragged back to the bed and wheeled to the ICU where I stayed for 2 sleepless days. The next 3 days were spent in the normal part of the hospital for monitering.
Later (and I have no memory of any of this), I was told that my boyfriend came in and noticed I was acting strange. He told me he called 911 when I was unresponsive. I seized and he tried to make me throw up. The ambulance came and took me away. I was intubated. I extubated myself due to improper sedation by the nurses.
For weeks after (and still sometimes now), I was in shock. I really believed I would die. For about a minute after I woke, I thought I was dead. It took a long time for me to fully realize that I did not actually die and that my worldly responsibilities still applied.
This was my 3rd lethal attempt. Each would have been successful had someone not intervened. I feel like an absolute failure of a person for having failed so many times. I am currently in therapy and have been as honest as I can, but I can't bring myself to tell them I've gotten ahold of SN and am just waiting for the anemetics to come in the mail.
Something my boyfriend told me that drove me into a deep depression was him saying that I can find solace in the fact that I would never do it. He meant this to be a comfort, but the night before March 1, amidst a huge fight, he screamed at me that everything I do is for attention and if I really wanted to die, I would be dead.
This has awoken a part of me in the back of my mind that insists I stay silent about my SN plans and my pain. A part that tells me that if I were truly hurting like I think I am, I will do everything in my power to prevent any interference in ctbing, and that if I let someone in, my pain is not valid. I feel very conflicted and hopeless.
Can anyone relate?
On March 1, I overdosed on a schedule 1 drug (I will not say what; it is incredibly difficult to obtain and therefore unhelpful to know the name) that 100% definitely should have killed me, according to almost a month of research. I am a small female (bmi 17.9) and took it on an empty stomach after a week of barely eating due to severe depression.
In the moment, as per the nature of the drug, it was a truly beautiful experience, almost euphoric. I was soaring dizzily above myself, writing nostalgically in my journal, happy to be drifting off to a better place.
I don't remember falling asleep.
What I do remember is waking up in the ER, tied to a bed. Moniters everywhere. All sorts of tubes and wires stuck to me. I was alone and scared. My bed was pushed into a different room and I was dragged onto a table for some kind of scan, then dragged back to the bed and wheeled to the ICU where I stayed for 2 sleepless days. The next 3 days were spent in the normal part of the hospital for monitering.
Later (and I have no memory of any of this), I was told that my boyfriend came in and noticed I was acting strange. He told me he called 911 when I was unresponsive. I seized and he tried to make me throw up. The ambulance came and took me away. I was intubated. I extubated myself due to improper sedation by the nurses.
For weeks after (and still sometimes now), I was in shock. I really believed I would die. For about a minute after I woke, I thought I was dead. It took a long time for me to fully realize that I did not actually die and that my worldly responsibilities still applied.
This was my 3rd lethal attempt. Each would have been successful had someone not intervened. I feel like an absolute failure of a person for having failed so many times. I am currently in therapy and have been as honest as I can, but I can't bring myself to tell them I've gotten ahold of SN and am just waiting for the anemetics to come in the mail.
Something my boyfriend told me that drove me into a deep depression was him saying that I can find solace in the fact that I would never do it. He meant this to be a comfort, but the night before March 1, amidst a huge fight, he screamed at me that everything I do is for attention and if I really wanted to die, I would be dead.
This has awoken a part of me in the back of my mind that insists I stay silent about my SN plans and my pain. A part that tells me that if I were truly hurting like I think I am, I will do everything in my power to prevent any interference in ctbing, and that if I let someone in, my pain is not valid. I feel very conflicted and hopeless.
Can anyone relate?
