Feeling a little unsettled...
It's that time of year again. Today marks the 8th anniversary of the day I didn't try hard enough to kill myself. She had 8 days left to live on June 26 2014. I'd have thought it would be sooner than that but it was 8 days. I'd just had enough of this life. Agnostic. Prayers not working when prayed which was rare, so why even try now?
This year, June has been a little different than before. More sadness less anger. Remembering the anguish of desperation, knowing she had so little time left and I had to get it in gear for her sake. But I didn't know who to ask or where to go.
My worst nightmare come true. Me standing in the center of town, full of people passing by on every side, screaming for help, but nobody listens or cares.
I desperately also needed more time at work. I was working 16 hours back to back each weekend and could not keep up. Instead of 32 hours a week I got about 28. So I asked to be switched from Saturday to Friday. That would give me some time to rest between 16 hour shifts. But they gave that day away to another nurse with less seniority than me for reasons that were not clear or fair. Strike 1.
Then there was Nat. He started having seizures again the day before on June 25 and I had to take him to the ER Vet and leave him in the ICU. They wanted to do an expensive test. More money I did not have. I had to decide. I said no. Strike 2.
Then there was my mother, my main concern and my panic. We went see her doctor earlier that day, June 26. They drew blood and decided to send her to Frye for a liter of IVF. I'd been telling them she was dehydrated. While there I got the notification from work that I was still working every Saturday and Sunday and that the other nurse took the Fridays I wanted. Then the ER Vet called and said Nat's seizures were not well controlled yet and would have to stay another day in the ICU. More money I did not have. All this while sitting in mom's hospital room knowing it would be soon for her. Then she began to say her head felt funny. I told the nurse, the nurse heard me clearly, but she did NOT DO ONE DAMN THING! Strike 3.
It was too much. The sister came by to visit. I began to lose it, I told her I was losing it. Mistake. It was just too much, but I didn't have to share that with her. I wanted out of this life. The only thing I could think of doing was to pull in my garage, shut the door, open the windows and keep the car running. So I drove home thinking about not seeing tomorrow, after leaving my sister in the room with our mother. I didn't have the energy to worry about what would happen to my mother. I knew what would happen, I just didn't know when. I drove in, shut the door, rolled down the windows with the car running. How long would this take?
Then I began to worry about the kitties. Would the carbon monoxide kill them too? I only made it about one minute. It started getting hard to breathe that quickly.
So I opened the garage door. A cop car pulled up behind me as I backed out into my drive. My head had been busting for hours and I needed something to drink so I thought I'd go to a fast food place for something to eat and drink. The cops said I was being forced to go to the hospital to be admitted against my will. My sister feared rightly that I would try to end my life, so she called them for help. Strike 4. How many more strikes will there be, I wondered?
Then thank God another car pulled up. It was a mental health guy from the county behavioral health department. He actually saved me from being admitted to the hospital. The police were satisfied this guy would take care of me so they left. We went inside my house and talked for an hour. It helped. Even though he was being paid to listen to me, at least someone was listening to me. We had a plan that I would go see a counselor on Tuesday July 1 for evaluation and assistance. I still had no hope.
Eight years ago this evening, that's where I was.
This life is so sad. Does that sound too melodramatic? Everything and every one is broken. But I have a twinge of hope now.
Still it hurts as the anniversary comes around once again. July 4 will evermore loom large in my mind as the spector of death, with dreadful anticipation of it's approach.
This year, June has been a little different than before. More sadness less anger. Remembering the anguish of desperation, knowing she had so little time left and I had to get it in gear for her sake. But I didn't know who to ask or where to go.
My worst nightmare come true. Me standing in the center of town, full of people passing by on every side, screaming for help, but nobody listens or cares.
I desperately also needed more time at work. I was working 16 hours back to back each weekend and could not keep up. Instead of 32 hours a week I got about 28. So I asked to be switched from Saturday to Friday. That would give me some time to rest between 16 hour shifts. But they gave that day away to another nurse with less seniority than me for reasons that were not clear or fair. Strike 1.
Then there was Nat. He started having seizures again the day before on June 25 and I had to take him to the ER Vet and leave him in the ICU. They wanted to do an expensive test. More money I did not have. I had to decide. I said no. Strike 2.
Then there was my mother, my main concern and my panic. We went see her doctor earlier that day, June 26. They drew blood and decided to send her to Frye for a liter of IVF. I'd been telling them she was dehydrated. While there I got the notification from work that I was still working every Saturday and Sunday and that the other nurse took the Fridays I wanted. Then the ER Vet called and said Nat's seizures were not well controlled yet and would have to stay another day in the ICU. More money I did not have. All this while sitting in mom's hospital room knowing it would be soon for her. Then she began to say her head felt funny. I told the nurse, the nurse heard me clearly, but she did NOT DO ONE DAMN THING! Strike 3.
It was too much. The sister came by to visit. I began to lose it, I told her I was losing it. Mistake. It was just too much, but I didn't have to share that with her. I wanted out of this life. The only thing I could think of doing was to pull in my garage, shut the door, open the windows and keep the car running. So I drove home thinking about not seeing tomorrow, after leaving my sister in the room with our mother. I didn't have the energy to worry about what would happen to my mother. I knew what would happen, I just didn't know when. I drove in, shut the door, rolled down the windows with the car running. How long would this take?
Then I began to worry about the kitties. Would the carbon monoxide kill them too? I only made it about one minute. It started getting hard to breathe that quickly.
So I opened the garage door. A cop car pulled up behind me as I backed out into my drive. My head had been busting for hours and I needed something to drink so I thought I'd go to a fast food place for something to eat and drink. The cops said I was being forced to go to the hospital to be admitted against my will. My sister feared rightly that I would try to end my life, so she called them for help. Strike 4. How many more strikes will there be, I wondered?
Then thank God another car pulled up. It was a mental health guy from the county behavioral health department. He actually saved me from being admitted to the hospital. The police were satisfied this guy would take care of me so they left. We went inside my house and talked for an hour. It helped. Even though he was being paid to listen to me, at least someone was listening to me. We had a plan that I would go see a counselor on Tuesday July 1 for evaluation and assistance. I still had no hope.
Eight years ago this evening, that's where I was.
This life is so sad. Does that sound too melodramatic? Everything and every one is broken. But I have a twinge of hope now.
Still it hurts as the anniversary comes around once again. July 4 will evermore loom large in my mind as the spector of death, with dreadful anticipation of it's approach.