Overdose


[TRIGGER WARNING]

I have probably given my family (and maybe even my friends) the biggest scare of their lives.

Things got a little bit tough on me a week ago. For some reason, it was too unbearable that on the late night of October 26 I decided to end things once and for all. First, I started by retracing the cuts on my palm, wounding myself again, and eventually leading to a cut on my wrist. Frustrated that I couldn’t seem to do it right, I took all the remaining medications I had. I had taken all the remaining antidepressants I was prescribed months ago (that I also stopped taking after a week because of reasons I already mentioned on this blog) and took 3 of my antihistamine. Before this, I texted my two closest friends telling them that I couldn’t take it anymore and that I’m not strong enough to pull through this struggle. It was my way of apologizing and saying goodbye to them. After gulping down my medications, I lied on my bed thinking about how my death is going to be. I knew it wasn’t going to be a peaceful one. I started wondering about what happens after the pain and if there will be a god, particularly a god to save me. On Twitter, I expressed all my apologies to my family and friends that they won’t be seeing anymore of me. One of the two friends I texted started to get worried. Now, this friend is actually miles away although her family lives in the same town as I do. While my arms and legs were starting to numb, that friend started texting me asking what have I done. I told her I was sorry because I’m not strong enough to live life. I told her what I had done. She got extremely worried and told me to ask for help. But I didn’t want to. I was already tired. I was too tired to get any help. I was too tired living. I just really wanted to end it all. Although a part of me wanted to be saved, a bigger part of me just wanted to end it all. Instead, my friend called her sister (who is a friend of my sister) to get me to a hospital. It was her parents who came to our house very late at night. My mother was woken up while I was trying to fall asleep and await my death. At this point, I had tingling sensations all over my body and I felt completely detached. My mother came into my room, going through my stuff, looking for the medications that I took. She woke me up (even though I had not fallen asleep yet) and asked me what had I done. She asked me if I had taken all of my meds, and I simply nodded. I remember clearly how she slapped my knee and I got emotionally hurt. My friend’s mother had come into my room and convinced me to go to a hospital. I didn’t really reply but after a while I just nodded and she thanked me and started sobbing and she and my mother prayed over me. She and her husband called for an ambulance, and I was taken to the hospital where the psychiatrist I had met before had a clinic. But then they had to transfer me to another hospital that had a psychiatry ward which I needed. Now, this is a government hospital and this is Philippines we are talking about so the process of getting me admitted was kind of a struggle. While the doctors and nurses connected to me to an IV and extracted blood from me, I just sat there feeling completely detached and just minding how my arms and legs were numb. They got me to lie down and I remember falling asleep but with a discomfort on my chest. I remember my heart beating so fast and my chest hurting. I couldn’t sleep well.

When the sun had finally rose the next day, I was still in the ward and my mother was sitting on my bedside. She asked me to say something to her and I just cried. She told me my sisters (who are all living far away) were really worried of me and that one of them wanted me to just quit school so that I can live with them and get the medical attention that I needed there. The same morning, one of the two friends I texted, not the one that had called her parents to help me, came to the hospital. I remember her crying and I was just like, “Don’t cry.” She skipped school that day just so she can watch over me (and for that I am very grateful). She had accidentally informed some of our classmates of me being hospitalized because she said she panicked, and so I got other visits from friends, mostly my high school friends. (I also got a lot of prayers from them which is sort of weird since I’m agnostic but these were genuinely kind gestures and so I accepted them.) The next day of being hospitalized, my thesis adviser learned about what happened to me from an alumni who saw me and my friend at the hospital. My adviser had to confirm this from my friend. When my thesis adviser came to visit me at the hospital, she gave me a lot of advise (and chocolate bar) and even shared her own story. I remember her telling me that the world is not expecting me to be a Gandhi or the Dalai Lama but she knew I would make a difference in the world even if it wasn’t on a large-scale. She also said that I have been worrying about my life being meaningless and that if my life had truly ended then I would have proven that really life is meaningless but that I have all the time in the world to find meaning in my life. One thing that stuck to me was when she said that once I find the meaning of my life I should meet her again and give her chocolate and tell her what the meaning of my life is. My philosophy professor also learned about what happened to me because I asked my friend to tell my teachers that I couldn’t come to their classes that day and he was the only one of them that asked about what happened. Apparently, my philo prof had also gone through the same thing and he gave me advise too about this all just being a passing moment.

A few days ago, that friend who called her parents to help me told me that she was annoyed at me for doing what I did but that she is glad that I am still here. She told me something that really just hit me. She said that just because people don’t understand my condition, it doesn’t mean they don’t care, that in life even if we can’t fully understand, it doesn’t mean we can’t fully love. That seriously hit me like damn because all this time I had been feeling like no one really cared or loved me at all because they never understood what I am going through. This is especially true for my family. For the past three years, I believed that my family doesn’t really love me or that they don’t really care for me because they don’t understand what I am going through. But my friend made me realize that it is not true at all because even with those two closest friends, they too don’t fully understand what I am feeling. I mean, yes, the friend who skipped her classes for me share the same sentiments as I do but she doesn’t feel the same things that I do. But I know that they care for me and so why does it have to be different for my family?

I have finally opened up to two of my sisters. I told them all of the things that I have been feeling and all of my worries, well at least the things that I can think of. Today, I talked to my closest sister, Mammy. I was crying when I told her everything while she just joked that she would also join me in crying (but she didn’t). She asked me to let them know how they could help me so I told her honestly that the reason I couldn’t share to them is that I felt like they were judging me, especially after that incident when they learned I’m no longer Catholic. She then said that they, my family, will support me in whatever I choose to do in the future and that they will help me get there. My sister made me promise  not harm myself again. But I couldn’t because I don’t even trust myself. So instead she made me promise that I will try me best not to harm myself again which is the only thing that I can do. She also asked me to help myself by seeing a psychiatrist and that if I didn’t like the psychiatrist they would look for another in Cebu. When our conversation ended and she had to leave with her husband already, she hugged me for the last time and cried. It was then that I realized that I hurt so many people for what I did. I realized that I never even apologized to any of them for hurting them. Not to my sisters who were really worried. Not to my friend who had skipped classes. Not to my mother who was the only family member here with me.

I am still alive. I am not sure how I feel. I am not sure if I am okay. I mean, depression doesn’t just go away. But I feel like I am better. I got two of my sisters listen to my feelings and worries, and so it feels like it’s going to become more manageable. Perhaps, I can get through this. For now, I am alive and I am going to keep going.

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