Muddled memories from the rest of that day. Coming in and out of consciousness, but only barely above a dream. Being wheelchaired around the hospital, moving around on the bed - or was it all part of that dream? It is all so fuzzy.
I remember waking up the next morning, in darkness, with my mother reading the paper beside me. I had taken the best attempt doing the worst thing I could do to myself, and seemed to have come through. All the tension of the past few months just drained out of me, no doubt flowing into those around me a hundred fold. But it was out of me - I was in no mood to try again. At least that day.
I was asked by the shrinks whether I wanted to admit myself into the psych ward in the region, for a week or two of observations - one of those moments where your life could go in one of two directions. I thought long and hard about it, consulted with my parents, and decided not to go into institutional care. I would of course see the shrink regularly again, for an unspecified time, but I was discharged that day.
I felt broken, completely torn apart, and needing to rebuild myself completely. And this time I was receptive to help, whereas in the interval between the first and second attempts I continued to be secretive. I still loathed the world and myself, but wanted to improve rather than destroy myself this time around.
I dropped out of trying at school again, which I feel was one of the best things for me. I should never have agreed to sign up for trying there again. Unsurprisingly, I had another two weeks off before the next set of school holidays. For the final term, I just turned up to attempt to start socialising again, although I felt a huge space around me, from staff, classmates and friends - I never wanted to confirm what the gossip was about me though. Our school was on the news while I was away from class as being hit by a suicide epidemic - there had been about four 'successful' suicides in a period of two years, with an unspecified number of attempts. Now I feel sympathy for what the staff were going through, but back then, I couldn't care less.
The next four months are basically a blur. My self confidence and self esteem were in the cellar, I was NOT taking medication - it had done so well for me last time around, obviously - and was attending the psych clinic twice a week those first few months. My social life was going to school. What I had feared was about to come to pass - the end of school, the end of my social life, and feeling broken and useless for the impending workforce.
I got a job the next year through my mother's work - another section, I wasn't working with her thank goodness. My social life improved, and alcohol was finally included at parties I attended - I discovered the wonders of beer and spirits. The teenage stereotype is that this happens during high school, as part of a funny story which would make a brainless but entertaining movie, but as stated before I was so not part of the A-league there.
My self confidence improved, if not my self esteem. Is that understandable? My confidence in myself grew in incremental steps, bunnylike hops in their smallness, yet my confidence in how others saw me remained at rock bottom, and has remained that way most of the rest of my life thus far.
The cutover point where the crisis ended and the rest of my life began happened approximately two years after my two suicide attempts. The trigger point where my 'hamster spinning in the wheel, merely waiting to drink on the weekend' stage ended and where things could move forward again was the travel bug hitting, and starting to organise a European trip twelve months out from the actual trip. My self confidence and esteem were still very low, but for the first time since I had started attacking my wrists, and probably a lot longer before that actually, for the first time in a long time, things were steadily and consistently moving up.
I was not cured, but I was on my way.
I remember waking up the next morning, in darkness, with my mother reading the paper beside me. I had taken the best attempt doing the worst thing I could do to myself, and seemed to have come through. All the tension of the past few months just drained out of me, no doubt flowing into those around me a hundred fold. But it was out of me - I was in no mood to try again. At least that day.
I was asked by the shrinks whether I wanted to admit myself into the psych ward in the region, for a week or two of observations - one of those moments where your life could go in one of two directions. I thought long and hard about it, consulted with my parents, and decided not to go into institutional care. I would of course see the shrink regularly again, for an unspecified time, but I was discharged that day.
I felt broken, completely torn apart, and needing to rebuild myself completely. And this time I was receptive to help, whereas in the interval between the first and second attempts I continued to be secretive. I still loathed the world and myself, but wanted to improve rather than destroy myself this time around.
I dropped out of trying at school again, which I feel was one of the best things for me. I should never have agreed to sign up for trying there again. Unsurprisingly, I had another two weeks off before the next set of school holidays. For the final term, I just turned up to attempt to start socialising again, although I felt a huge space around me, from staff, classmates and friends - I never wanted to confirm what the gossip was about me though. Our school was on the news while I was away from class as being hit by a suicide epidemic - there had been about four 'successful' suicides in a period of two years, with an unspecified number of attempts. Now I feel sympathy for what the staff were going through, but back then, I couldn't care less.
The next four months are basically a blur. My self confidence and self esteem were in the cellar, I was NOT taking medication - it had done so well for me last time around, obviously - and was attending the psych clinic twice a week those first few months. My social life was going to school. What I had feared was about to come to pass - the end of school, the end of my social life, and feeling broken and useless for the impending workforce.
I got a job the next year through my mother's work - another section, I wasn't working with her thank goodness. My social life improved, and alcohol was finally included at parties I attended - I discovered the wonders of beer and spirits. The teenage stereotype is that this happens during high school, as part of a funny story which would make a brainless but entertaining movie, but as stated before I was so not part of the A-league there.
My self confidence improved, if not my self esteem. Is that understandable? My confidence in myself grew in incremental steps, bunnylike hops in their smallness, yet my confidence in how others saw me remained at rock bottom, and has remained that way most of the rest of my life thus far.
The cutover point where the crisis ended and the rest of my life began happened approximately two years after my two suicide attempts. The trigger point where my 'hamster spinning in the wheel, merely waiting to drink on the weekend' stage ended and where things could move forward again was the travel bug hitting, and starting to organise a European trip twelve months out from the actual trip. My self confidence and esteem were still very low, but for the first time since I had started attacking my wrists, and probably a lot longer before that actually, for the first time in a long time, things were steadily and consistently moving up.
I was not cured, but I was on my way.
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