Motion of Death
Was I almost dead or close to death? Some might say there is no distinction- I
was just nearer to death. They fail to see the motion of death. If I was almost
dead, my motion would be toward death. I am in the act of death and almost
there. Just a little further to go. I am not ceasing the act. I have planned to
die and I am almost there.
If I was close to death, the motion has ceased and left me in a particular
state. The act is completed and I stand next to death. Motion has stopped and I
come to rest at deaths bedside.
The distinction is clear to me. One week ago I was almost dead. One more pill
bottle and the motion toward death would have been completed. Instead, the last
few days I’ve simply been close to death. Being close to death, I’ve come to a
new level of understanding. Nothing can ever be the same. I closed my eyes
Thursday and never expected to see the light of day again. I never thought I’d
feel the sun in my face, the relaxing deep breath or my brothers laugh. When you
come to peace about such decisions and become ready for death, any other outcome
leaves you forever changed.
I look in the mirror and I see a shadow of who I was. I see the tired eyes and
dark bags under my eyes. My clothes are wrinkled and dirty from the several days
of sharing two outfits. I see a fear that was never there before. I fear the
actions I now know I can take. I broke a trust with myself that I don’t know if
it will ever return. I know, I know I am capable of being my own grim
reaper. I am not only capable of having suicidal ideation, or taking a few
bottles of pills and puke it up, but capable of taking all the pills and
then to close my eyes hoping for forever.
I didn’t just see death and realize dreaming about it was ridiculous. I was
experiencing death. I was in favor of death. I asked for death to come. I set
off the motion of death. Somehow that changes the facts about everything. It
wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t a cry for help. It was just the motion of death.
Mood Madness
The hallmark of my disorder is the shift from mania to depression. Depending
upon what mood I’m in, my perception of the world changes. Before the moment I
decided to take my life, I had a place to live in the dorms, I felt great on a
high with hypomania. I was caught up on all my classes, I had the trust of
others and therapy was going well. In this manic mood my suicide was planned and
delivered without prolonged ideation or thoughts. I had the energy to keep these
dark thoughts from everyone else. Manic, I barely even flinched as I said
goodbye to a promising future. I closed my eyes for one last time and felt a
sense of peacefulness and happiness with my decision. There was no fear in the
manic mood. No one feared I was going to commit suicide, no one was waiting for
me to prove my sanity and no one doubted my judgment about my disorder.
A week after my suicide attempt, I come off my mania and have started the path
to depression. I stop talking, put my nose in a book, ignore therapy
assignments, lose patience and have sky rocketing irritability levels.
Depression shows me a new reality: I have no where to live, I’m crashing into
sadness, I’m behind in classes, I face mistrust and fear from others and therapy
takes a few steps back. I went into suicide with all the confidence in the world
and have come out a deflated balloon. Depressed, my suicide was planned for
weeks and not delivered because they were only thoughts. I will not have the
energy to keep these dark thoughts from slipping to someone. This coming
depression also focus’ my mind on those moments before the overdose. I am
smacked with the notion that I tried to murder myself. This sounds harsher than
suicide. A week later, my neck hurts from the tubes and I can’t have pain
medication because I’m healing my liver and kidney’s. Depression makes me miss
those moments of peacefulness and the strength by which I made my decision.
Since I woke up, almost everyone is afraid I might end up dead on my floor, that
I am not stable and that I am not right about my stability. Frustration sets in.
I know this is my fault and I take responsibility, but that doesn’t make it
easier. Depression has come to remind me that I hate the frustration.
I am amazed at the difference between the two moods. I am also frightened. Both
moods have their difficulties. Depression takes away my life blood and takes
away so many things such as housing and socialization. Mania has so much good,
but I get fatally suicidal so it doesn’t matter what I have. Do I take and use
what I do have quickly and later die while still in possession of such good
things. Or do I go without many good things, but live a long life? Waking up
after a suicide attempt makes you ask such questions. I strive for a balance
between the two: a few good things in life and a medium length of life. I know
it is only this mood madness that makes me see in black and white.
Suicide has taken a toll on both my mind and body. Words still come slow to me, not always able to put the right sentence together. People ask me why with regularity and I can only shrug my shoulders. The answers lay in a sealed envelope in the polices hands. There are many suicide letters written and a letter explaining my actions. Deep in my heart I know those letters will never be enough. The real answers will forever stay locked in my mind though I hope with time, my memory can help unlock that door. Or maybe my memory is protecting me and I don’t need to know. All I need to know is that I’m alive and will stay this way.
My eyes instantly close
and I feel a slight pain. One eye then opens. I haven’t seen the sun in a week.
A wind tugs at me gently. Then again with more force. I hesitantly open two
eyes. I’m surrounded by brick wall and dead vegetation. There’s a padlock on the
wooden door. Anywhere else this could have been perhaps a courtyard to a
restaurant or the patio of a house.
The near constant sirens of the many ambulances remind me of how close the
hospital is and that when I walk through the backdoor I walk back into Snowden’s
transition unit.
Fear. We all experience
it on some level. Some fear animals or reptiles, murderer’s and rapists, old age
and dying. Some fear going crazy and others fear staying crazy. I know what it’s
like to fear, but now I know the experience of having a large amount of people
fear the actions I may take. Days without phone calls no longer means I’m just
busy, but that I may be in my room dead from an overdose. The times I get
excited and energized will not be taken for strict enthusiasm, but the
beginnings of mania.
I smile and exude confidence that I can hang on, but one fact still remains: I am afraid. I feel that staying somewhat manic for a few days has kept me from an awful truth: I wanted to die. My memory protects the more intense situation once in the hospital, but each day my brain recovers those last few moments before the overdose
I have to be stronger than my past, my disorder, my impulses and thoughts. The
thoughts tell me I am just a disappointment to everyone now and I ought to just
focus on ending it all again. Waking up changed everything not for the better,
but for the worst. I have to fight back. I know people didn't like my decision,
but I did not disappoint them when I woke up. As much as this is all now hard
for me, it is hard on others as well. They now worry more, which takes more
energy. I realize how much stronger I now have to be even though I am at a lower
stability level; the cruel reality of my decision nine days ago and of a
troubled mind. My will must be stronger than the jumping and I hold on to
reality with all of my strength. I act more stable than I know I am inside.
Breathe in, breathe out.
My memory flashes back
to one moment nine days ago. I stand at the bookcase holding my Lithium bottle.
Haziness has already set in my mind from the other pills. I know I’ve probably
taken enough to kill me. Still, I hold the Lithium bottle. If I take this I will
seriously damage my body. If I take this I will die. I feel a wave of nausea. I
move my bookcase. I drop the Lithium. My death leaves room for hope. I wanted to
be dead, but if I lived though this I didn’t want to substantially hurt my body.
That small window of doubt was enough for me to live.
One day soon I know I
will have to deal with the decision to end my life. Not the after effects, but
how I felt now about almost dying. The moment I stopped popping pills and
decided to lie down and die and before I was found. As far as I know that time
period was less than a half hour. Thirty minutes of labored breathing and
increased heart rate. Thirty minutes to come to peace with my decision. Thirty
minutes to remain quiet and not ask for help. Thirty minutes of a peacefulness
I’ve never felt before. Thirty minutes of knowing I made the right decision.
Thirty minutes of harmony within my body and mind. It seemed so right. I made
the decision for myself, in my best interest. I gave validity to my feeling that
I was to live hard and fast and die young. To make a big splash in this world
and get out before I drowned. Was all of these feelings only the mania. Was
there any truth to these feelings now? Or maybe these feelings only come because
I knew I couldn’t keep my blistering pace to one slower. I wanted a sprint to
the end, not a marathon. That was my personality, wasn’t it? Suicide suddenly
casts doubt on so much. Were those thirty minutes everything I feel them to be?
Or was it all just a few neurons mis-firing. I’d like to think I was very in
control. Though because of the result of my disorder I know there was no way I
was in complete control. I could have called someone or taken that therapy
session instead of all the pills. That was a choice. But the feelings then- they
were real.
Will this suicide be my un-doing? Will I get the crazy stamp back? Will I choose
suicide upon entering the real world? Or will I hold onto the fact that my life
will change dramatically in two months. Can I close down the option that my life
from 23 years old on will be phenomenal? Or believe the mood and believe that
this will continue to be my life despite a life change. Part of me says who
cares if there will always be Bipolar. There will always be the memories of the
past. Breathe in. Breathe out.
