There’s so much happening that it’s hard to keep track. (And before anyone gets on my case about the grammar or whatever, spare me. This is real life, not an essay.)
So, my lovely mother decided to grab a pint of vodka and a bottle of Tylenol and disappeared the other night, leaving nothing but suicide notes for my sister and me. Apparently, my sister was either too stoned or didn’t think it was important enough to call me, so I didn’t find out until nearly five hours after it all went down. For over 24 hours, the cops couldn’t find her. My dad had to file a missing person’s report, and I had to come up with some lame excuse to cover for her at work. Meanwhile, my dad was freaking out because the cops found her car by the Beverly-Salem bridge but couldn’t find her. And then, being the person she is, my mother waltzed back home drunk the next day with no apology to any of us.
As if that wasn’t enough, my sister had one of her infamous meltdowns. This morning, she locked herself in my parents’ room with all the phones—including mine—and screamed at the top of her lungs for over an hour. Of course, I get in trouble when my dad’s cell rings, and it’s the neighbor complaining about the noise on his day off. My dad, in his infinite wisdom, decides that every problem in this family is somehow my fault because I’m ‘crazy,’ even though I’m the one standing outside the door trying to calm my sister down. It’s beyond ridiculous.
On top of all that, I cut my upper arm last night. It was bad enough to need stitches, but I just slapped on three layers of gauze and six Band-Aids. It’s okay now, I guess.
Then, to add to the chaos, I thought I was having a heart attack last night. It felt like I’d done a ton of Adderall and chased it with half a bottle of Jameson. It was terrifying.
I went off my medication because my partner is so amazing and has changed my life so much that I thought I didn’t need them anymore. But my house is so stressed out—what with me making my GED announcement and trying to find a job. All my parents do is pick on me, and my anxiety is through the roof. It’s taking a serious toll. The worst part is that I’m taking it out on Jamie, and I don’t even know why. I’m really happy, but all this anxiety makes it hard to show it. So the other night, I talked to the woman who manages my medications, and I asked her to put me back on a low dose of anxiety meds and Valium for the borderline. Now, I’m on a healthy dose of lithium and Valium twice a day. The last couple of days have been rough while I adjust, and I’ve felt really out of control, but today felt different. I think I’ll be fine until Jamie and I leave. And if things start to spiral, I’ll just remind myself that this bullshit isn’t forever—but what Jamie and I have is. In fact, it’s forever and two days, and that’s enough to keep me from snapping again like this.
So, to make a long story short, I wasn’t having a heart attack after all—just the worst panic attack of my life. I did hurt myself, but only once. After I got the bleeding to stop, I took a sleeping pill and went to bed. And you know what? I’m proud of myself. I’m proud that the only pill I took was one to help me sleep and not every pill bottle in the house. In the grand scheme of things, I’ve come a long way from wanting to die. I’m trying my best to deal with problems as they come, and I’m definitely more rational now. No more playing the ‘maybe I should die’ game. Things seem better in my head because now I can justify to myself why I’m still here.
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