Trigger warning: May be upsetting to those who have previously attempted suicide or experienced an overdose.
The morning after, I felt groggy and unrested.
Walked downstairs to fill my water bottle. Holding it under the flow of water I noticed my hands shaking.
Stopped the flow of water. Tried to hold the bottle in front of my face, tried to be completely still. The bottle shook violently with my hands.
Walked quickly upstairs, with more urgency. Picked up a pen to write down what I remembered from the night before. Tried to write down my symptoms. My writing was unrecognizable.
Pulled clothes off the end of the bed. Struggled to dress. Struggled to pull my shirt over my head. Struggled to stop the shaking for long enough to put on pants. 15 minutes later.
Called my housemate who had a car to drive me to the hospital. No answer. Called him.
“I’ll be right over. 30 minutes.”
Sat on couch, hands shaking. Pulled out phone and messaged other housemate.
“Can you please stay with me until he comes to bring me to the hospital? I’m afraid I might have a seizure.”
My shaking hands and now blurring vision slowed me down so much, it felt like ages to type.
Realized I would need my health card and insurance. Walked up to my room, and my shaky hands pulled out a key. Fumbled to unlock the door, only to jump back, muffling a scream.
Spider. The size of my hand. Crawling up the door frame, twitching, ready to jump. Stood there in a panic for what felt like 10 minutes.
Finally opened the door and jumped back, anticipating the spider. Nothing. Looked closer and it was gone. Hallucinations.
Sat on the couch waiting for an eternity. Sporadic bolts of strong electricity would bind me to my seat. Completely paralyzed. Uncontrollable shaking. Electricity. Paralyzed. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Watching spiders rise up from the carpet and crawl towards me before melting away.
“I always thought you were a little too well adjusted,” jokes the housemate.
Nervous laughter in agreement. “Jokes on you,” I say.
He arrives. I can’t move. Pulls me up and walks me to the car.
Arrive at hospital. At reception. Try to speak, but my throat is paralyzed. He completes registration.
When I can speak, all I can say is, “my hands feel so heavy. They feel so heavy. I can’t hold them up, they’re rocks.” He encouragingly picks up hand to show that they aren’t heavy each time.
Feel like melting into the floor. Eyes roll back in head. Vision readjusts. Electricity. Paralysis. Tears that I can’t wipe away. My hands – they’re too heavy.
Dissociation. Slips out of body. White light. Fear. I’m going to die here. I’m going to be buried here, thousands of kilometers away from my family. Will they ship my body back? Will they fly it back?
I slip in and out of my body again. I’m calm and at peace. Complete serenity. Electricity. Fear returns.
Try to speak to the nurse but I’ve lost all speech. I’ve lost all movement. My soul keeps slipping out, I can feel it.
Fear. What if they shame me like last time? I cry. “Please don’t get mad. Please believe me,” I think as loud as I can.
She speaks to me and I see her far away. Don’t close your eyes. I wasn’t even trying to die. I just wanted to stop the pain. Regret and fear.
Later. I’m back in my body. The psychiatric nurse sits with me, so gentle and kind. Relief.
She tells me I’m lucky. I well-exceeded what should have been a lethal dose.
I don’t know what to say so I just cry. I thank her. I leave.