! BEFORE you go on,
please note that this blog post
will contain depictions of
suicide and self-harm.
Please read with caution!
Let me set the scene: It’s senior year. I’m depressed as fuck. Dread father is out of town. Mommy dearest and I are the only two in the trailer at Non-na and Pops’ land. I had been telling them for quite some time that I was depressed, that I was needing help, and that I wanted to go to a doctor. I had started getting more heavily into drugs, again, and shit was going downhill at that point. Also, my parents were starting to force me into attending church more since they were attending church more. We previously hadn’t attended church as religiously in quite some time. I was forced to attend despite my protests of not wanting to go.
I had been telling them for quite some time that I was depressed, that I was needing help, and that I wanted to go to a doctor.
On this particular night I was struggling really badly with withdrawals and had recently had a lot of troubles with friends. I confronted Mommy dearest with “You need to take me to a hospital or emergency room because I’m suicidal.” I was rebutted with “What? Don’t say that.” It’s important to note, if you haven’t read before, that Mommy dearest’s mother, Mawmaw Malice, committed suicide via drug overdose, this is very important.
I began to express what was going on in a very light way, I didn’t want to get into trouble, or get my friends into trouble, regarding what situations I was involved in. I told her that my depression was worsening and that the medication I had been prescribed about 2-3 years earlier was absolutely not working so I had stopped taking it. It was probably 6 or so months since I had taken it. Amitriptyline. Also important to note that this medication was the ONLY medication I had ever been prescribed since I had only had a ‘psychiatrist’ for approximately 1-2 months. The experience was horrendous, including being touched and coerced by her physician’s assistant, an elderly man, of whom traumatized me from therapists and psychiatrists for quite some time. However, I had about 6 months’ worth of medication on hand since the prescription was continually filled, even though I never had follow-up appointments (big no-no for the medical field if you know anything about psychiatry).
The experience was horrendous, including being touched and coerced by her physician’s assistant, an elderly man, of whom traumatized me from therapists and psychiatrists for quite some time.
The entire time I was pouring my heart out to Mommy dearest for the first time since these feelings started many years prior, the look on her face was that of someone who had been told the most inconvenient information possible. I hadn’t been looking at her and hadn’t noticed because just getting the light amount of information out was truly difficult on my end that I couldn’t pry my eyes from the floor.
By the time I looked up and saw her face of annoyance my heart broke. I knew that this entire conversation was an absolute waste of time. I had hoped my mother would quip back with kindness, trust that her daughter was truly expressing her honest hearts contents for healing and help. Apparently, this was not the case. The first words from Mommy dearest were how rude I was to share this information with her. Instantly, I was filled with rage. The type of rage of being called a liar, from being told I was doing everything for attention, the tones from her voice triggered that rage monster that I couldn’t hold back. I’m sure my face went from terror to livid in a matter of seconds.
The type of rage of being called a liar, from being told I was doing everything for attention, the tones from her voice triggered that rage monster that I couldn’t hold back.
Mommy dearest doubled down and quickly told me how my life was amazing and that I should be grateful. Here’s where I know I fucked up. I gave too much of a shit about my own life that I told her “If I don’t get help, I’m going to swallow my entire bottle of antidepressants to kill myself just to turn this shit off.” The audacity I had to dare offend my poor mother in that moment by even thinking of ending my life that was just so absolutely perfect. How fucking dare I? How dare I threaten my own life with things I would do if I didn’t get medical treatment.
Mommy dearest scoffed at me, she screamed back at me that I was so ungrateful and how hurtful I was. She yelled “How dare you hurt me like that! You know how my mother killed herself, why would you say something like that just to hurt me? You need to go to bed and pray for forgiveness. That is just awful.” Then she turned around, walked into her room, and slammed the door.
You need to go to bed and pray for forgiveness. That is just awful.
Imagine that being your response to you kid having a plan to commit suicide. Imagine your kid telling you exactly what they were going to do, knowing it was exactly what your mother did, knowing exactly how depressed they were, and turning around to walk away.
It was a Thursday that this all happened.
I didn’t want to be there when she woke up the next morning.
I wasn’t about to wait until my dad came home to commit my act of violence. I grabbed my bottle of anti-depressants and looked up the lethal dosage amount online. Sure enough, I had about 3x the lethal amount. I downed them. That and an entire bottle of Tylenol. I wasn’t getting out of this alive. I didn’t want to be there when she woke up the next morning.
From here on, the blog will contain brief remnants of what I remember, but the majority of what is written is strictly what I was told by friends that were with me and around me who witnessed my behavior. What is bolded and italicized will be what I remember.
Friday Morning: I got into my vehicle. I drove past or to my cousin’s house, who I picked up in the mornings. I got to school and sat outside my first period class with my head in my knees. I asked someone for a ponytail holder since I had forgotten mine. I slept through my class. A friend of mine told my teacher I was sick and hadn’t gotten sleep.
Friday Afternoon: I drove my vehicle approximately 1/4 mile to a local restaurant where I slept while my friends ate and tried to talk to me to see what was going on. I drove them back when it was time to return to school. I attended all of my classes.
Friday Late Afternoon: I drove home and stopped answering my calls and texts.
Monday Morning: I woke up, assumed it was Friday morning and went about my routine as normal. I was unaware of the day until I arrived at school, and my friends were asking what happened to me.
I don’t know how I lived, I assume I either miscounted, was not considering my slightly overweight into the calculation, or by some miracle of the gods was left to exist through the weekend to live to tell the tale. That or the medication was so expired it didn’t work. I still, to this day, have no idea how I made it out of that. Dread father didn’t return until mid-week, and I had assumed Mommy dearest told him about what happened. It wasn’t until our fight earlier this year that I found out she never spoke a word about it. I don’t know what happened that weekend. I don’t know if I stayed in bed, if I said anything to her, if she even tried to wake me. I don’t know. She never brought it up and neither did I. But she let me overdose, she let me be drugged through 3 days and wasn’t concerned enough to take me to a hospital or to contact any medical professional. Nor was she concerned enough to tell Dread father what happened.
The entire situation went swept under the rug with her. She may not have abused me physically but the emotional and physical neglect from her was astounding. I can’t imagine what else I went through that she hasn’t told me about and I don’t remember.
Traumatized Viridimere 