I don’t want to go there

Part I: I steal a pen

 

Almost a year ago, I was watching the sea with a bottle of pills and the intention to enter the water and never come back.

A lot of things changed since then, but the important things haven’t. As right now, I’m at the crossroads of my life. I’m stuck, with no clear path, in the middle of an intersection. I watch friends, family and the occasional stranger, that I met in strange circumstances, passing me by. They all have move on with their lives.

I see them, and I’m happy for them.

I see them waking to their futures and my heart fills with joy for them.

I see them and I comprehend that I too have to move on.

I see them and I get sad, because I don’t know where to go or what to do.

The stories I’m about to tell are just that, stories. There’s no moral or lesson in them. Or maybe there is, you are going to be the judge of that. They are the stories of people that I met at the place that I never imagined I would have to go back. Everyone has a story, tragic or not. They are all like me, trying to cope with what life is: a succession of events that makes you, defines you, and maybe destroy you.

I want to start why and how I got there.

All started in May. I’m not much of a sleeper, but since then I started to sleep less. I didn’t know what to do, so I get to the office and start to work early. I didn’t gave to much thought because, after all, I had a good summer, an awesome birthday, get to go to the beach almost every weekend, and I enjoyed long walks around Old San Juan which a really love. I had nothing to worry about. In my mind, it would pass and I’ll be okay again.

If you had read my older posts, you most know that have a Bipolar II disorder. Pretty much is like Bipolar I, but with less maniac episodes, more hippomaniac episodes and a lot of anxiety and sadness. It is supposed to be a cycle, so I start to feel bad around July. It happened, but, with all honesty, I didn’t do anything about it, because I didn’t want to do anything about it.

By then, I was sleeping less and less, to the point that I didn’t sleep and get in the office around 5:00 am. I work a lot and by lunch hour, I was completely exhausted. I made a lot of mistakes in a short period of time and, so my work didn’t mean squat.

I still didn’t say anything. I did exercise, I wasn’t that hungry, so I lost big amount of weight (which I needed anyway). I tried to cope, as best as I could. On my long walks, I took a lot of photos, especially of the beach. I took photos of a sunset at the beach. Very nice for a person that doesn’t know that much of photography. Then I got my greatest, strangest and dangerous idea. One day, at 4:30 am, I took my camera and went to shoot photos of a sunset. I sited by one of the walls of El Castillo San Felipe del Morro (I didn’t know to say it in English, plus I like to say it in Spanish) and waited patiently until the first light announced the majesty of the dawn. It was a crazy but a great photo. No matter what I did, I couldn’t stand still for more than ten minutes.

On my monthly appointment with my psychiatrist, I explained to him what was going on. I couldn’t stand still at his office. I left out a lot of things, so he didn’t send me to the hospital, because I was terrified to go back. What I managed to get was a medical certificate for three days, so I pull myself together and try to sleep.

The three days passed, I felt worst. Now, not only I couldn’t sleep, not I couldn’t stand still for more than ten minutes and couldn’t stop talking. I didn’t care that my throat was sore, I just talk and talk. The lack of sleep made me not only irritable but it started to show physically. My eyes were red with dark circles under them and I was dizzy and nauseated. As the cherry on top of a sundae, my thoughts were disorganized, racing. I felt like a million people on my head all talking at the same time. I just couldn’t take it anymore. I took the afternoon off and went to my apartment.

When I got home, and this is the first time that I say this, I took a long bath and took five Seroquel pills of 300mg. My doctor prescribed me 200mg, but I had stashed the 300mg ones on my night stand. I didn’t have another intention, but to sleep a little. They didn’t work. After that, I did thought of a plan, not a very structured one, but I did thought of it. Killing myself seemed to me a much better alternative than living through this again.

I remember that I became obsessed about some photographs that I wanted to see. Why I wanted to see them? I guess I wanted to see people that I love, so I got an excuse to live a little longer. By then, I trashed my entire apartment, I saw shadows in every corner and I swear I was talking to someone. I yelled, but I didn’t cry. I just put my shoes and started to walk again until I didn’t know where to go anymore.

I became desperate. I remember talking to my Mom, but the entire day was just bits and pieces. I remember calling a friend and put her through hell. I realized that later and that’s why I didn’t asked for help earlier. It’s really hard for me to interrupt someone else’s life. To me, it seems unfair, but by then I was really scared. I didn’t want to die, but I took four Klonopin pills to try to calm down, but I didn’t feel anything. In fact, by that point I was very tempted to take the whole bottle combined with the Seroquel one. Instead, I waited for her and she came with a Bic Mac. Funny thing. I ate the burger but couldn’t taste it. Don’t know why.

I don’t remember how I was convinced of the fact that I needed to go to the hospital. I came up with all the excuses in the world, so I don’t had to go back there. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but it must have been pretty lame excuses, because I agree to go.

When I got there, another friend that happens to work there help us with the admission process( I called her on my way to the hospital). I remember all of us were talking in an office. I remember answering the same questions over and over again. Around 11:00 pm (more or less) a nurse came for me, and I had to say goodbye to my friends. If they read this, waving goodbye at them was one of the hardest things I had to do on this whole thing. It meant that I really was there, that I really was a mess, that I couldn’t say no, I don’t want to go back there, that I came back when I promised myself that I wouldn’t.

Again, I had to answer the same freaking questions, give up my cutest bra (they had some metal) and my pen. They took a sample of my blood and urine. I didn’t know what they gave me to sleep, but I slept for almost two days.

When I finally woke up, I searched for my things and I was happy to find my notebook among them, but they took my pencil. How I was going to hurt myself with that? The answer was a big no. So I did the sensible thing, I stole a pen and wrote between the sheets of my bed, and so start this story.

Part II, about everyone else, coming soon.

Thanks for reading.