Bottom of the bottle

I have been trying to lace all my posts with some type of positive encouragement, and this one will as well. But this is me exposing one of the worst moments in my life. I was in another extreme depressive state of my life back in 2009. I was trying to function daily, but just couldn’t bear functioning anymore. There was no light at the end of the tunnel for me. There was no light whatsoever. I had a husband, children, home and a job. I felt helpless trying to take care of myself, let alone my home or work life. And like many other people who have experienced my kind of pain, I made a conscious decision that not only affected me greatly, but my family and friends as well.

That morning my ex-husband took the kids to school, and I knew he would be back afterwards. I sat on the edge of our bed and stared at a couple of the prescription bottles I was getting tired of taking pills from every day. I think it was my mood stabilizer and anxiety medications. I heard my ex moving around in the other room, but I knew he would check on me eventually. In a desperate attempt, I took several pills from both bottles; I couldn’t even tell you how many of each. I remember getting extremely sleepy, but I can’t remember where my body was – if I was on the bed, the floor, wherever.

Basically the next few hours were only audible. I could hear people talking but it was like I was in complete darkness. I heard my ex call 911 and call his mom. I cannot even fathom the fear he must have been experiencing. I don’t know how long it took for the paramedics and police to get there. I could somewhat feel them moving me around, but I couldn’t tell what they were doing. What I do remember is that one policeman and one male paramedic made comments that were absolutely degrading and disgusting. Like I wasn’t enduring enough pain and humiliation in my life already.

The officer had talked to my ex about what events may have led up to my overdose. To spare my ex, I will not give the exact words the officer spoke, but he made a crude comment about our personal life. The next insult came from the paramedic who “loaded” me into the ambulance. His irritation was evident when he told me to help him get myself in because I was hurting his back. He attacked further by berating me and telling me that they would probably pump my stomach, and if that’s what I had wanted. No compassion whatsoever. But then I hadn’t made that decision to try to get sympathy and compassion. I was just trying to escape.

I knew I wasn’t going to die. I knew I would be sick and have some consequences, but I just didn’t know to what extent. I knew God wasn’t done with me yet, even though I took such drastic measures to escape my pain. After I got to the hospital I remember going in and out hearing what the staff were doing for me. I did not have to have my stomach pumped, which some people were amazed at. Obviously when I was stabilized, I was put on constant watch so I wouldn’t try anything harmful again. Later I was transferred to the first of my psychiatric ward stays. That story is for another time. The family and friends that visited me were so thankful yet extremely worried about my overdose and my mental state. My best friend at that time had come and gave me such a huge hug, whispering against my hair “I prayed, I prayed!” I don’t even know how her relationship with God is, if at all, but she had that much love for me to resort to prayer. My mom always poured herself into her children, and she hurt because she couldn’t take away my hurt. My cousin has been there for me since way back when, and I am grateful she chose to come visit me then, and several times thereafter at my other hospitalizations.

There was so much more emotion on my part and the part of everyone else involved in my story, but there is no way to completely capture that in mere words. That was one of my wake-up calls. Adjusting and monitoring medications for bipolar disorder was such an exhausting ordeal. It still is to this day. And I did have other thoughts of hurting myself again after that incident. I had the life experience and better understanding of my mental issues though that I didn’t follow through a second time.

I have been a Christian since I was six years old. I don’t know when I first started experiencing bipolar symptoms, but I can remember them as far back as junior high. Back then I knew something was wrong, but I had no name for it or any idea how to find out what was wrong. But all this time I have still believed that God was real. His greatest miracle for me was keeping me alive, but I know He is with me regardless of that. I still fought tooth and nail for years on end working for what I wanted, and not what He wanted for me. Sometimes I would draw closer to Him, but not enough where I was willing to give Him total control. Until this past October. I had another mental and emotional breakdown that sent me to a crisis residential center for two weeks. Another story for another time. But that was the final nudge that God gave to me to make me finally realize I can’t excel in my life if I don’t listen to Him. I won’t overcome anything without His strength and power. And now He is restoring my life in ways I never would have imagined. And there is so much more to come. So I do see light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, but I also see the Light surrounding me now. He will keep me safe from any darkness that may cross my path again until the moment that He alone has destined for me to die. But from that moment when I enter eternity, I will never have to look at the bottom of a bottle again.