Tomorrow marks the first anniversary of my overdose. At the time I detailed it in this blog. But in short after my mental health had a rapid decline since the start of 2019 I decided that enough was enough. I realised that the game was up when I found myself struggling to enjoy Airbourne, normally the 4 days I live for each year, and I went to bed the Sunday night having written a long letter to my family and friends telling them how much I loved them and insisting that they not blame themselves.
Although I told myself as I wrote it that it was a 'just in case' letter, a deeper part of me had shifted for the worse. The proverbial straw that broke the camel's back was being let go from my job, not much of a shock since I was barely managing to make it in more than one or two days a week.
So that was how the overdose happened, part of it was wanting to end it all, part of it was wanting to black out and forget everything, part of it was trying to express the pain that I couldn't put into words that even cutting myself wasn't releasing, part of it was wanting to push it all off myself and let the adults take over and part of it was a final fuck off to the world that had made life so difficult.
The days following are a blur, I hadn't swallowed enough pills or drunk enough vodka to need the hospital. I remember being chronically unsettled, sleeping badly, a feeling of absolute guilt at having hurt my parents and friends and hardest of all was the feeling of being unsafe. Unsafe from myself, whenever I'd felt unsafe before it was as a result of other people's actions and I could retreat inside myself. When it's you making yourself feel unsafe there's nowhere to retreat, being scared of yourself and what your brain might make you do.
Do I feel like I've made any progress since that August day? Absolutely not. I don't work, I hardly go out (at least I had plenty of practice for lockdown!), I struggle in social situations and find myself utterly drained from them. I have panic attacks from just getting the bus into town (not ideal when you're walking up the hill trying to listen to your best friend tell you about her day), I struggle with panic attacks that wake me up just after I've drifted off. I cut myself, put it this way, shorts have not been an option for most of the summer although considering the size of my thighs that's probably a blessing to the world at large!
My world has shrunk to staying in and annoying the rabbit, being bounced on by the dog, cross-stitching, watching YouTube & Netflix, eating and berating myself for the weight I've piled back on whilst feeling physically sick looking at myself, napping, only being able to go places if someone goes with me and when I'm able to leave the house the occasional dog walk. Not exactly healing and healthy.
I know that the recovery has to come in a large part from me, counselling, my OT (when I'm allocated one) and useless psychiatrists can only do so much. But the drive I used to have to defy the limits of my brain and condition just isn't there any more. Being a hermit is my lot in life. There's still a large part of my brain that berates me for not finishing the job properly, that I'm too weak to give it another, proper try. It argues that I have no chance at a successful future (I'm not going to disagree with it there!) so why postpone the inevitable.
I try really hard to find positivity and enjoy things, some times it's possible - the week that Mum and I had in Vienna last November (PANDAS! 🐼 🐼), seeing my friends when I feel able, watching crap on YouTube with Helen (it's an art form) or watching (shouting at) the F1 with Chris and Vana. But so often I just feel uninspired and joyless, the things I do like sewing, reading just can't always cut it (no pun intended). Then I'm left feeling frustrated, bored and at the mercy of my thoughts.
I really hope that maybe by next year's anniversary I'll still be here to mark it. That maybe a summer of delayed gigs and airshows might have lifted things a little. That the blubber I've re-attached to me might have gone (although let's be realistic), that I might have gotten some way to reclaiming the old Jen who was able to tell her brain to fuck off back in its box and go enjoy herself. Is that too much to hope for?
Love Jen
XxxX
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