Jul. 30th, 2017

quirkytizzy: (Default)
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.

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