Anniversary and Death
Fourteen years ago today my Dad passed away. One year ago today I attempted to commit suicide. I often struggle with the workings of my higher power (for ease I call him/her God). I didn't realize the significance of the day that I tried to kill myself until a while later, but now I can't help but feel like for some reason my Dad was looking over me and decided for me that it was not my time.
Had it not been for friends and my younger sister checking in on me after 3 days of taking a large amount of xanex chased by bottles of wine, I wouldn't be here today. After 92 pills and 5 bottles of wine, when my sister got me to the ER there was nothing they could do for me except monitor my heart rate and hope for the best due to the duration of the overdose. I spent a week in the mental ward to figure out what was wrong with me and what help I needed. I had always struggled with anxiety and depression since I could remember. I was seeing a psychiatrist for a year who changed my medications every four to six weeks and he had diagnosed me with Major Depressive disorder. Eventually my new doctors diagnosed with Bipolar, Major Depressive Disorder and Anxiety which is not, for me treated with anti depressants.
I think that the severity of my mental illness began when I had my son, he was diagnosed with CKD at 7 weeks old and life flighted to the University of Iowa hospital where in the beginning the prognosis of his survival was quite low. Thankfully after a 15 day stay we were able to take him home and almost 4 years later he continues to amaze us with how well his health is progressing. I didn't sleep for 9 weeks. I had to stop breast feeding at 4 months because of all of the stress I could no longer produce milk. There were so many things that I blamed myself for as a failure as a mother. I was diagnosed with postpartum depression and given antidepressants for that. I took care of the kids for the majority on my own, I was overwhelmed. I also had 3 major surgeries over the next two years that were outpatient so I would come home rest a couple of hours and then get up and make dinner, bath the kids and resume life as usual after each one. All of the pressure, all of the pain, all of the self reliance finally caught up with me and I just became so exhausted I wanted to turn it all off. Go to sleep and not wake up, I was burnt out and had nothing left to offer to anyone.
Due to this experience my suicide attempt I lost my home, my husband, my kids and basically had nothing and nowhere to go. My sister took me in for a couple of weeks, then a friend, then another friend had a rental house that was open and welcomed me to stay there until I could figure out how to live on my own.
Those that are closest to me, don't want to talk about it, they want me to deal with it and "fix" it on my own. They want me to get better. If only they would talk to me, or pick up a book or find an easy read online the options of becoming educated on what I am going through are endless. Rather than do that I find most of my loved ones just choose to look the other way and pretend it's not a thing, or it's not happening. Guess what, once bipolar, always bipolar the highs and lows will continue for the rest of my life... even more encouraging right?
I see a psychologist and a psychiatrist on a regular basis and found them through this experience and they have continued to keep me alive even though there is no cure, there are ways to cope and correct medication can make life more manageable.
My niece interviewed me due to my mental illness and posted a photo of me riding my Harley because it's something that helps me clear my head and feel better on the bad days if I can get out of bed. This was posted on Facebook. Many people liked, loved or commented on the article she wrote. I re posted it a couple of weeks later and over the two postings only two blood relatives (Thank you Missy and Delainee) liked or commented on it. Then and there I realized that I am pretty much on my own with the exception of people I can count on one hand. My assumption is that my family does not believe mental illness is real, that they don't want to deal with it or they just plain don't care. All things that continue to feed the depression and anxiety I have. I never know who I will be from one day to the next, will I wake up "okay" or depressed or anxious. Maybe will I not sleep at all because of my insomnia, and who cares anyway.
I find myself questioning why I just didn't die November 15th 2016, as hard as this last year has been, I'd rather not have lived it. The only thing that keeps me going is my kids, I don't want to leave them or damage them with the legacy that their mother killed herself.
I don't know what the point is for being here, but I hope someday that I will find some reason to appreciate that I am.
Had it not been for friends and my younger sister checking in on me after 3 days of taking a large amount of xanex chased by bottles of wine, I wouldn't be here today. After 92 pills and 5 bottles of wine, when my sister got me to the ER there was nothing they could do for me except monitor my heart rate and hope for the best due to the duration of the overdose. I spent a week in the mental ward to figure out what was wrong with me and what help I needed. I had always struggled with anxiety and depression since I could remember. I was seeing a psychiatrist for a year who changed my medications every four to six weeks and he had diagnosed me with Major Depressive disorder. Eventually my new doctors diagnosed with Bipolar, Major Depressive Disorder and Anxiety which is not, for me treated with anti depressants.
I think that the severity of my mental illness began when I had my son, he was diagnosed with CKD at 7 weeks old and life flighted to the University of Iowa hospital where in the beginning the prognosis of his survival was quite low. Thankfully after a 15 day stay we were able to take him home and almost 4 years later he continues to amaze us with how well his health is progressing. I didn't sleep for 9 weeks. I had to stop breast feeding at 4 months because of all of the stress I could no longer produce milk. There were so many things that I blamed myself for as a failure as a mother. I was diagnosed with postpartum depression and given antidepressants for that. I took care of the kids for the majority on my own, I was overwhelmed. I also had 3 major surgeries over the next two years that were outpatient so I would come home rest a couple of hours and then get up and make dinner, bath the kids and resume life as usual after each one. All of the pressure, all of the pain, all of the self reliance finally caught up with me and I just became so exhausted I wanted to turn it all off. Go to sleep and not wake up, I was burnt out and had nothing left to offer to anyone.
Due to this experience my suicide attempt I lost my home, my husband, my kids and basically had nothing and nowhere to go. My sister took me in for a couple of weeks, then a friend, then another friend had a rental house that was open and welcomed me to stay there until I could figure out how to live on my own.
Those that are closest to me, don't want to talk about it, they want me to deal with it and "fix" it on my own. They want me to get better. If only they would talk to me, or pick up a book or find an easy read online the options of becoming educated on what I am going through are endless. Rather than do that I find most of my loved ones just choose to look the other way and pretend it's not a thing, or it's not happening. Guess what, once bipolar, always bipolar the highs and lows will continue for the rest of my life... even more encouraging right?
I see a psychologist and a psychiatrist on a regular basis and found them through this experience and they have continued to keep me alive even though there is no cure, there are ways to cope and correct medication can make life more manageable.
My niece interviewed me due to my mental illness and posted a photo of me riding my Harley because it's something that helps me clear my head and feel better on the bad days if I can get out of bed. This was posted on Facebook. Many people liked, loved or commented on the article she wrote. I re posted it a couple of weeks later and over the two postings only two blood relatives (Thank you Missy and Delainee) liked or commented on it. Then and there I realized that I am pretty much on my own with the exception of people I can count on one hand. My assumption is that my family does not believe mental illness is real, that they don't want to deal with it or they just plain don't care. All things that continue to feed the depression and anxiety I have. I never know who I will be from one day to the next, will I wake up "okay" or depressed or anxious. Maybe will I not sleep at all because of my insomnia, and who cares anyway.
I find myself questioning why I just didn't die November 15th 2016, as hard as this last year has been, I'd rather not have lived it. The only thing that keeps me going is my kids, I don't want to leave them or damage them with the legacy that their mother killed herself.
I don't know what the point is for being here, but I hope someday that I will find some reason to appreciate that I am.
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