My blog was offline for a few days as I let my foggy, drug-soaked brain take everything in – both inside and outside my protected bubble of a world. I’m back again – processing thoughts the only way I know how.

Over the weekend, I contacted a number of friends asking how they felt when they found out about my overdose. While sometimes the truth hurts, I’m so very grateful for their honesty. That kind of honesty only comes from people who care enough to share. The repercussions are something I’m ready to process and understand. As I mentioned in my last post, I’ve never felt so abandoned and rejected as those first weeks – it seemed when I most needed support, nobody was there. Aside from people being angry, my admission to the clinic coincided with the eruption of a global pandemic sending people into a toilet paper-purchasing frenzy. In my hospital bubble, I’m protected from those realities. The first days, even weeks, after taking an overdose, it’s hard to focus on other people. When life’s so overwhelming hope has left the building, waking up and working through the repercussions is too much. I was too unwell. But with a few weeks rest and some medication changes, I’m ready to start thinking outside myself.

I created a word mandala with the responses I collated. It helps me with perspective. I have copies all over my room to remind me every action has a reaction.

I want to address some of the questions and send out a giant heartfelt apology for causing so much hurt and pain, as well as give thanks for all the love and support.

Even in isolation (as we all are) I’m once again feeling connected to people who have loved me through my ugliest moments. And to brand new friends who’ve become my only physical connection to the outside world. You know who you are 🙂 And a big shout out to my husband for being my eternal rock – my safest place to fall. No matter what – he’s always there. Thanks for the flowers. I ate all the chocolates 😀

I get the anger, hurt, fear, guilt, confusion. I really do. I know they’re normal responses to suicide – regardless of the outcome. I can’t respond to every single person right now, but there are a few things I want to address in the hope I do more good than harm with my explanation. And that my clarification is not seen as an excuse, or in any way representative of anybody else. Simply my headspace then and now.

• I feel like a bad person

Why? A number of people had variations on this theme. I did something to myself. I know saying, “don’t feel bad” will do nothing whatsoever to change how you feel. And all feelings are valid. But I don’t have bad friends. The fact people hadn’t picked up on my full intention is a reflection on me – not anyone else.

• Felt irrelevant

I guess I struggle to understand this myself. I have so much difficulty communicating emotional things verbally, and the more difficult or intense the emotion, the less chance I have of being able to communicate at all. The fact I didn’t share my level of hopelessness was not because my friends were irrelevant but simply because I had no words.

• Felt unvalued and a failure as a friend

This makes me really sad. Some of my most valued and treasured friends said things along these lines. Please know I love you and treasure our friendship and that saying to someone, “I’m going to kill myself on Monday” is not easily said. If I’d had the courage, you would have been the first person I reached out to. I had so little hope, there was nothing was left to say.

• Do you still want to die?

Gosh. This is a hard one. I’ve had suicidal ideation since I was nine years old but no concrete plans for the vast majority of those years. I took an overdose at age 19 and came close many times in the past five years, but this was my first time since 1985. A better question is, do I want to live? All I can say in all honesty right now is, I don’t know. That’s why I’m in a hospital – eight nights in ICU if that helps clarify the severity of my unwellness. My moods are as changeable as the wind and the mood stabilising medications take time to work. I’m waiting it out in a comfy room, with room service, a cleaner and an endless supply of toilet paper. I’m deeply conscious of how privileged I am compared to many people right now.

• You share in your blog but not with your friends

There were several variations on this theme. Yes. It’s true. My husband frequently bemoans the fact the only things he knows about me are what he reads in my blog. I can share things with the whole world I can’t share with those closest to me – because it’s easier. I know that sounds cowardly. Talking to the great anonymous who probably aren’t reading and probably don’t care, is much easier than having a heart-to-heart with someone who cares and wants to see me get better. I’m pretty good at talking about things after the fact – but not in the moment. I don’t have a clearer answer than that. Except to say, I communicate through the written, not spoken, word.

• Was the “passing comment” my fault?

No. Whoever you are. Whatever you think you might have accidentally said, it wasn’t you. I don’t care who you are or why you’re reading this, the straw that broke this camel’s back was nothing. Nobody’s fault. It was just simply a moment where I gave up. Nothing rude or insensitive. It simply was what it was. No – it’s not your fault. I come back to an earlier point – I’m responsible for my actions.

• Why would you want to hurt people?

I don’t. I will share my journaling from the days before and after the overdose in another post, but while I was cognizant of the pain and grief (anger, shock, helplessness, hurt and confusion) that would be left behind, it became more than I could bear at the time. Perhaps my later journaling will make that clearer. While I was aware of the pain others would go through, the persistent sense of hopelessness, helplessness and worthlessness was no longer enough to counteract the cost. And I hadn’t planned to be here to deal with the aftermath. Yet here we are.

I have damaged relationships, lost people I dearly love and developed close contact with people I barely knew.

As my psychiatric nurse confirmed, nothing will ever be the same again. I have to live with the consequences of my actions – whether I like it or not. I can’t undo what is done.

What I can do is what I’ve been told to do for the past five years – put myself first. Rest. Heal. Set boundaries. I can hear the Hallelujah Sister! from afar. I’m a slow learner. Here I am resting. I do as much psychotherapy as I can get my hands on – usually three sessions per day, plus one-on-one sessions with specialists. I’m trying. I’ve been told to get up and just fucking fight for my life. I don’t know how. I’m hoping by being closeted in this hospital and being honest – both through my writing and my interactions with specialists – I’m doing the right thing. I hope that’s the case.

I don’t know if my words make it clearer or more confusing. All I can guess is that for those who’ve never experienced suicidal ideation – despite all sorts of traumas – that it’s not part of who you are. It is part of me. I’ve lived with it my entire life and know no different. Receiving the bipolar II diagnosis is a relief – it offers hope and gives me an explanation as to why I might be so different to most. My understanding of bipolar is that many people may have a genetic vulnerability to it, but it takes trauma for it to become fully activated. At least that’s my lay person’s definition. In my head, that’s how I managed to get by pretty well for the first 45 years of my life without doing anything too drastic. I had issues – but I wasn’t overdosing. When the traumas started that’s when things started rapidly declining.

I’ll leave you with these words – not mine.

Once you choose hope,

Anything is possible.

Christopher Reeve