It has been 71 days since my last suicidal attempt. February 18, 2018. An attempt I was not aware of committing. Medical responders pumped my stomachs with charcoal to detox me from taking almost 90 pills of Ativan. I don’t even see how I’m still here. Someone maybe not be able to hear an ambulance or police siren. A fire truck, is a different story. I was barely there, but I could slightly hear the fire truck from a distance. But that’s all sort of heard and sort of remember.
This picture I’m sharing with you, I took it in the hospital. I have absolutely no recollection of when I took it. It’s no wonder I keep referring to this incident only happens like a month ago. 71 days is not a month. I’m still in the dark of what happened from when the fire truck arrived here, the emergency room, front the emergency room to where I was consciously aware I was in the holding area waiting for a room at the Mental health facility for treatment.
Why don’t I know? Why don’t I have anyone to tell me what went on during that phase of my life passing away from me? It hurts not to know! It really hurts. Worst of all, it’s sad. It makes me really sad. I will know when I pick up a report from the Sheriff Office in a few weeks. I’m glad I made it through and my children have me and I have them.
My worst nightmare is my kids living the rest of their lives uttering the words. “My mother took her life, she committed suicide”! There’s no therapy than can fix a child of any age living with that.
Truly! I do want closure. I just want to know what happened.
My Mental Memoirs