Y'know those ridiculous warning labels they put on things?

And you have to think "Jesus, what idiot made them have to put THAT label on?" *slowly raises hand*

Me. That idiot would be me.

KLAXON NUMBER ONE GOING OFF: "This pill isn't working for my anxiety. Let's take another one. Shit, this one's not doing the job, either. Maybe this one will do it. Fuck! It's not working! Try this one and this one, too!"

I mixed several meds at once, despite the warnings from hundreds of bottles, doctors, friends, internet horror stories, psychiatrists, psychologists, and the most basic of common sense.

*KLAXON NUMBER TWO GOING OFF: Ignoring the relapse that I absolutely cannot ignore, I genuinely underestimated the warnings I've heard about mixing meds and alcohol. I looked at the bottle of rum on Jesse's desk.

KLAXON NUMBER THREE GOING OFF: "How bad can it be? It's just a few shots." I made the decision and then the action to destroy 17 years of sobriety.

The rest reads like any other overdose story, like any other relapse story, like any other dive into psychotic self-destructive behavior. The more I go on, the more I'm finding my war stories aren't that unique.

Acting fucked up doesn't make me special.

It makes me, as you said I wasn't, Michael, a statistic. That's exactly what all this is making me. A statistic that - and you're right, Gonzo - that's going to land me face-down on the floor for a final time.

5480389.

That's the number on my medical bracelet for this visit. A number. Just a fucking number. A statistic. A case of "terminal uniqueness," and getting more terminal each time I get a new number slapped on myself.

I'm not sure what else to write. 30 meetings in 30 days. DBT and talk-therapy start next week. My application to volunteer at the local no-kill animal shelter gets started this week. The treatment plan gets longer, more complicated - and I can only hope - more comprehensive.

There's more to be written - and will be done so, because if there's anything that I am as good at as I am with self-destructive behaviors is babbling self-obsessively about my self-obsessive behaviors.

And each of you - every single one of you who commented - hit a bulls-eye. That's to be discussed with extreme seriousness.

The things I said to Jesse....this is something that I can say "I'm sorry" for all day long (and I have), but this is going to have to be a living amend. As in, if I'm truly sorry, I will change the behavior and not do it again.

Change is the truest apology one can make, and for what I've put him through, nothing but a true apology will mend these wounds I am ripping in between us.

Thank you all so much for supporting him. You guys have no idea how much that means to me. Thank you. THANK YOU.

Ridiculous aside to end tonight with: Do not underestimate hospital security, either in their tenacity or their ability to call back-up lightning fast. I was sooooo sure they wouldn't actually touch me for fear of lawsuits. And in that delusion, I kneed the closest guard in the nuts and tried to make a run for it.

(At 4 AM in the morning. During one of the most violent storms that Kansas City has seen in years, to which I was going to walk miles through to get home. In a hospital gown. "Presence of mind" is not something I could have been accused of.)

Yeeeeeaaahhhh. Two security guards turned into eight guards *likethat*. In my howling, flailing, biting, scratching, punching, and kicking, all nine of us (each security guard and myself) wound up with multiple bruises that are going to take weeks to fade.

I don't know whether to be slightly proud or profoundly sad that it took eight trained men, ten full minutes, and their special triple locked restraints to strap me to the bed. At the moment, I'm mostly wincing from the bruises left over, and feeling a little bad that each of those men are also wincing from bruises that I gave them.

Also screaming "Where the fuck did you learn your restraint techniques?! 50 Shades of fucking Gray?!" does not help.

Lesson learned.

This entry was originally posted at http://quirkytizzy.dreamwidth.org/1097314.html
This is why we like you. Keep on keepin' on.

NO, REALLY, I MEAN THAT. You need to be alive, and preferably sober, to do that.

The umpteen years were not for nothing. You know how to work it and make it work.

...Even though there are no easy answers.

ETA: Personally, I find that 50 Shades quip excellent... but then I know a thing or three about you. People usually do things a certain way because there are certain reasons for doing it that way.

Edited at 2017-07-31 02:01 am (UTC)
A Number in a Tally
I'm glad to see you're doing ok. I've been constantly checking my email and then LiveJournal for updates over the past three days.

I wonder if your hopelessness and my disinterest in dealing with my dad's estate these past several months might be interlinked.

I don't believe you are a statistic. You are a very truly amazing woman to almost everyone who knows you, who has just hit a patch so rough it would emotionally obliterate a lot of people.

But yeah, you can do things -- you can make decisions -- that turn you into a statistic. I guess in some sense we all become statistics in the end. Some of us are remembered only as a statistic -- some number in a tally -- and some of us are remembered as so much more.

You're one of the good ones. I want you to know that, whatever may come to pass, you'll be remembered by a lot of people as so much more.

And I hope you can find it in you to keep fighting to prove them right.
You only become a statistic if you give up. And I know you. You won't give up because you've survived too much to give up now.

Really.

Your words have given me so much comfort when dealing with my own crazy. I'm not alone in this fight. I believe you may have talked me down at one point. I don't remember. I know you provided moral support to my husband when I was in the hospital.

The only way you can go is forward.
...It's good that the put you on some kind of therapy even after the dismissal from hospital.
'Cause - this seriously needs a talk about it. I don't even know if talking is enough.
It's not like it happened for the first time, this breakthrough of emotions, but seriously, with each time it seems to become worse.
It definitely is something that cannot be ignored.
This state of despair is in you. It exists. And, as the circumstances that lead to it don't vanish, it will keep continuing to break through whenever situations take a development that support it.
It's a matter of self-control if you know what to do in those situations. AND - it is a matter of if you know, do I firmly know if I want to stay alive or not? If I know what of both things I want, then I keep doing things that support one of both options. If this is "life", then I keep myself from doing self-destructive things that can lead to the ultimate end, then I keep the self-destruction on a level which is going to hurt me, but I'm going to survive it. Like crying, cutting myself with less sharp things, spamming my diary, eating something sweet or going out and taking a walk around the block.
I don't want to say "it's so easy" 'cause I've always fucking hated this phrase, but 3 times (or was it already more than that?) of voluntarily doing things that can safely kill myself, this definitely needs a regard as towards my real wish of wanting to live or not. And this needs bloody honesty to oneself! Bloody honesty like self-discipline.
Can't say it with more emphasizing.
Congratulations on still being alive.

And no, acting fucked up doesn't make you special. Acting fucked up just makes people fucking annoying. It is, as I'm sure you're aware, terribly unseemly. So yes, best stop doing that.

I'm very glad to hear it sounds as if you've got a plan. You deserve more than to wind up dead on the floor.

~hugs~
Acting fucked up doesn't make you a fuck-up either.

Like one of my supervisory mentors once told me when I was doubting my abilities as a lead: "You're not a failure. You only fail if you quit trying."

Edited at 2017-07-31 02:12 pm (UTC)
lol.

Wow. You sound like me. I have yet to have written about my hospital stays. Overdosing can get really serious. Ive done a few for recreational reasons but once in illinois was so scary i can hardly deal with benedryl again. :x

Im glad to see youre back home. Your boyfriend/girlfriend loves you i can tell.

What is YOUR name? I dont know your name.
I'm Lisa or Talissia. Talissia is my first name. I knew i had run across your somewhere. That looks familiar.