After repeating in detail what happened last weekend to about a dozen different people, I am just too fucking tired to do it again. I do, however, want to document this somewhere so that it never, ever happens again.
So, instead of having to say it ALL OVER AGAIN, I’ll just paste in an email I sent to my dad earlier tonight. My mom and him have been in Europe for six weeks. They only know I was in the hospital and it was serious, not how it happened. Whatever is not clearly stated (since it’s a letter to my dad) is easy to infer, I’d think. Only thing really to know is that Ryan is my husband. So, yeah.
I’m not sure why but I didn’t get that email until just as I started writing this email.. so, sorry.
I’ve not really wanted to talk to anyone lately besides Ryan. I don’t want to field questions about what happened. I was grilled and grilled at the hospital and the honest-to-God truth is I don’t cohesively remember. Just pieces and fragments. Even then, I have no idea what’s real and what I hallucinated.
I’ll tell you what I do know…
Ryan and I were separated for the weekend. We had a huge fight over something and I needed space from him. I was already considering divorce. We were both an emotional mess. I haven’t been sleeping. I get insomnia really bad at night, jittery, anxious, usually clean or sit at the computer for hours just to pass time. I also ran out of weed that week and had no way to calm my emotions down.
Saturday night, having not eaten or slept in two days, I stupidly decided to have a few drinks to “take the edge off.” Didn’t take much because according to my Twitter, which I’d still apparently been updating throughout this shit, I was piss drunk and started cutting. Furiously. After that, I remember laying in the shower covered in blood wishing I would die. Then I blacked out. I woke up in the middle of the night have what I now know was a seizure. I started begging for help from Ryan, who was still in the hotel, but I swore (until the cops told me otherwise) that he was in the house. Asleep, on the couch, only feet from me. I started getting immediately nauseous and tried to get out of the recliner, which I’d somehow ended up in. I couldn’t pull the handle to get out and ended up rolling off. I tried to stand and fell face first into the floor. Hard. I slid to the bathroom, unable to lift any part of my body, where I violently threw up and seized on the floor, banging my head uncontrollably. I screamed at the top of my lungs wondering why Ryan wouldn’t get up. (He wasn’t there.) I screamed for you and mom for hours, banging and flailing, before I blacked out again. The same thing repeated well into the morning as I slid around the house trying to bang, crush, make any noise possible to wake the “people” in the house. At one point, I woke in the kitchen with broken plates shattered everywhere. I couldn’t see. I didn’t have my glasses and I had horrible double vision. I screamed and cried for Ryan, before realizing at this point that if I didn’t find a phone, I was going to die.
I didn’t want to die. I wanted to live. Something did. I spent I don’t know how long dragging my near-paralyzed body to the closest phone in the master bedroom. I curled up on the side of the bed and frantically tried over and over to dial your number but I was so confused that I couldn’t remember. I tried dialing any number I could but the phone kept saying invalid. That’s when I called 911. I told the operator in a very slurred voice that I needed an ambulance. She asked if anyone was there and I kept saying, “Yes yes, my husband is here but he won’t help me! He’s been giving me the ‘silent treatment’ all morning! I don’t know what’s wrong but I need help, I can’t move!” The operator told me to keep calling for Ryan because the door was locked and the paramedics couldn’t get to me. They were about to break a window when I heard the deadbolt unlock and they came in. I was still shaking and couldn’t move at all. They had to lift me on a gerney. I don’t remember much after except being very cold and having excrutiating pain in my back, which ultimately took five doses of morphine to subside. The paramedics kept asking me who did this, who did this. Apparently my injuries rose suspicions of domestic violence and they thought RYAN did it. I kept saying no, no, I did it to myself, I couldn’t stop, but they just repeated that I have to be honest with them. When I got to the hospital, the nurses, doctors, police, and a detective asked me over and over, saying “Tell the truth.” The truth was I didn’t know.
My eye was swollen shut and my double vision made it impossible to see anyways, so I closed my eyes most of the day. As the detective questioned me, I found myself getting confused on dates and times. I had no idea where Ryan was until they told me he was in a hotel. I had no idea where you guys were until much later in the day when I kept asking the nurse to call you and then I remembered Europe. I couldn’t tell anyone what happened because I everything I DID remember wasnt really there. The detective asked to search the house, which I first declined since they couldn’t promise not to arrest Ryan, who I was convinced was still there. After they told me he was at the hospital and talked to the detective himself, I agreed to the search. When the detective came back, he asked me again what happened and said he found empty alcohol cans and empty pill bottles, along with blood and vomit everywhere. Again, I tried to piece back my memory and vaguely remember it but distant, like a bad dream. After that, the detective seemed satisfied that there was no crime committed and left. When Ryan came in… I’ve never seen him like that. Right then I knew, even though I hadn’t seen my face, that it was bad. I also knew for sure that there was absolutely no way he was at that house during all this and felt horrible for even thinking that he wouldn’t help me…
Although the detective had made what happened clear to me, I was very careful about my wording to the doctors. The last thing I wanted was another psych ward visit. I told them about the alcohol, seizures, and everything else I remembered, but didn’t say it was a suicide attempt. That’s why I didn’t want to talk to you while I was in the hospital…
Ryan barely left me for a second, only long enough to drive back and forth to take care of Oakley. He kept me sane in there. Everyone looked at me like I was crazy. Like I would fracture my nose and beat my own face to a pulp ON PURPOSE. And before you even ask, No. I did not. Not that anyone will believe me.
Tests concluded I had an abnormal air pocket around my heart that needed to be looked at. They put me under, scoped it (it was fine), stitched me up, and sent me to a recovery room. Two days and numerous promises that ‘No, I’m not suicidal,’ and ‘Yes, I do have a therapist,’ later, I’m allowed to go home.
Ryan cleaned the entire house back to new before I ever got home so I don’t really know how bad it was. And for what its worth, I’m sorry for trashing your house. I thought I was dying and trying to get help…
So. That’s the whole ugly story. I’m really trying to just move on with a somewhat positive outlook and not think about what happened. Since getting home, my insomnia has increased, my anxiety is through the fucking roof, I’m afraid of the dark, being alone, being in recliner chairs, sleeping… I’m afraid I’m going to wake up screaming and alone again.
The only thing I have to hold on to is the fact that this sick fucked incident made Ryan and I cling to each other, thankful for each precious moment, and agreed to forgive and work thing out…And the fact that I’m alive, and want to stay that way. I want to get better. More than ever. I feel like my nine lives are running out and if I don’t do something, change SOMETHING, then I will die. I don’t know what that is though. I thought I was doing better…
Yes, I’m quitting drinking for good, don’t waste your breath. I’m hoping to start AA meetings soon. I started looking for work; was even supposed to have an interview today at Subway but the interviewer never showed up. It was all the way in Medford, she knew I was coming from Cave Junction and didn’t even bother to call and cancel/change/let me fucking know at all. Classy, huh? I gave Ryan my last hidden blade in the house to toss. I’ll be resisting the temptation, and using alternate methods of stress relief. We found a couple apartments we like and hope to save enough to be out by the beginning of August at the very latest…
They say every addict has to hit rock bottom before they can get better. I’d say this about takes the cake. And I am so done with all this nonsense. I know what I want.
I don’t know what else to tell you. I’m sorry. Like always, I’m sorry I fucked up. I’m sorry I have weird fucked-up problems that nobody understands. I’m sorry you have to keep dealing with this.
I wished I never had to tell you any of this, but you deserved to know. I don’t want to talk about it ever again. I want to let the remainder of my fractured memories fade until I never have to be afraid to close my eyes again.