Depersonalization, Panic Attacks, Suicide Attempt, DUI, Psych Ward Redux

By the way, this is very long.

I'm not sure why I'm posting this here. Most probably because I really can't go to my family, which is a long story. Perhaps the best way to sum it up is that my mother is a member of the Christian Coalition and about a month ago decided I was demon-possessed. My brother listens to Limbaugh and his personal bible is Atlas Shrugged. I learned a long time ago there's no help there.

I just need to vent to people who aren't Christian fundamentalists or hard right-wingers. I've already vented a little to a friend I met here (thanks, Lou). But this knowledge is so great it's eating me alive. So many implications. I could be in jail right now. I could be dead. My only friend is acting strangely toward me. I'm convinced he and my mother had a nice little chat, which means the friendship is in peril.

A couple of weeks ago, I experienced what amounted to a 72-hour panic attack. The attack began with intense feelings that I was not in control of my body, that I was somehow outside it, controlling it from behind. I had run out of anti-anxiety medicine and it was the weekend. I hadn't been taking care of myself. I went two days on a few tomatoes and a partial bowl of rice, which I didn't have the stomach to finsh. My sleeping patterns were interrupted by night terrors and poor sleep.

It took time to have the anti-anxiety meds refilled because the P.A. noted how many it had taken to keep me "sane" lately. I've been taking too many. I'm probably hooked on them. I hadn't had the drug for over a week when the panic attack hit. I don't know if it was just the usual panic attack + depersonalization or if withdrawal had some part to play.

After several pills I was able to calm down, but that didn't eliminate the problems. I'm not even sure what the final trigger was. I've been feeling worthless, hopeless, unwanted, an obstacle to my mother's happy retirement, unloved by my mother and family, alone, unable to fulfill my dreams, messed up. So I attempted to kill myself by ingesting an entire bottle of Klonopin (clonazapam). I expected it to knock me out and send me into a sweet dreamland from which I'd never awake.

But that didn't happen.

I waited a couple of hours. I felt really loopy, but not on the edge of dying. I called the local suicide prevention line, but didn't give them my name. All I wanted was for someone to locate my counselor, Tim, the one person I can trust.

I imagine I pissed him off with my dogged determination not to reveal my whereabouts. I kept telling him how he might reach Tim and gave a special password Tim would understand, but it was a no-go.

Suicide prevention put me on hold, so I hung up.

I thought about just lying there, waiting to either die or regain my senses. I called a friend and begged him to drive me to Tim's office.

Again with Tim.

You have to understand, I have experienced enough medical and psychological malpractice to fill a book the past couple of years. I've even been told I had a bona fide case in a couple of instances, but no lawyer wanted to take the cases. They kept bouncing me around until I gave up. Maybe because it's because I'm poor.

I don't trust health care "professionals" as a rule and what happened this time made me even less inclined to trust them.

All I wanted was to see Tim, who would know the right people to contact to get me out of this jam. I was supposed to be dead or at least asleep. I was out of my mind. I needed to see Tim. Now.

I called my friend back and he said he couldn't take me in the morning. I can't remember if I made it clear to him that I'd basically taken 100 times the regular dosage of klonopin. At any rate, I was pissed.

Still not thinking properly, I got in my car and headed for Tim's office, which is a good 30-minute drive. It was still very early in the morning.

As I drove I started thinking, "This klonopin isn't working. I need to add alcohol to the mix. Maybe if I get some alcohol it will kill me off."

So I pulled into a mini mart and bought a couple of drinks and a chocolate bar of some kind. I can't even remember what they were, now, because I was so far gone mentally.

I started walking toward my car when I realized I'd left it running. It was locked with the keys inside. I'd planned to put the booze in the back and drive to Tim's office. What the hell was I thinking? Finishing the job in the parking lot? Probably.

I could walk very well and stumbled to my running, locked car. I even fell down once.

That's when the highway patrolman walked up. I had no idea of what I was doing, so I smiled and said, "Hi." I was standing there like an idiot with a bag of booze in my hand.

"Have you had anything to drink tonight?" asked the officer.

"No," I answered truthfully. Then it struck me that I probably shouldn't be driving after ingesting so much klonopin. Shit. "I am on prescription pills." This was a half-truth. I didn't trust the officer enough to let him know I'd taken roughly 100 times the recommended dosage.

"Well, the fireman behind you said that you were swerving all over the road."

I had no reason to doubt him, though I didn't recall being so impaired. "Really?" I asked. I felt truly befuddled and somewhere beneath the klonopin, I was absolutely furious with myself for driving under the influence. I could have killed someone.

I stumbled and dropped my bag of booze. The bottles cracked and leaked.

"Consider that a sign from God," said the officer. "It probably isn't a very good idea to mix alcohol and prescription pills.

That was the general idea. Because I've thoroughly researched religion and found nothing to believe in, I didn't consider it a sign of Providence, but rather a sign that I was loopy beyond all reason.

"Look," said the police officer. "I could place you under arrest for driving under the influence. Look here...you parked crooked, you left the keys in the car, you can't even stand up without stumbling, let alone drive."

He was absolutely correct. I felt my heart sink. Never would I have believed myself capable of such a thing. I won't even drive after drinking alcohol with dinner and so I rarely have it when I go out. I'm so conscientious about this, but the thought barely crossed my mind when I got in my car with 100 times the recommended dosage of klonopin ricocheting through my body. I felt sick at what I had done.

"Here, I'll make you a deal. We'll drive you home and you can get your car in the morning. But if you get in that car and drive it, I'll arrest you for driving under the influence."

I couldn't believe it. By all rights he should have arrested me anyway. I feel lucky I wasn't arrested, but part of me thinks he should have anyway. Why didn't he? Was it because I had no priors at all? Or was it because my license plate came up "secret"? My family were all into law enforcement: corrections, more precisely. Police tend to cut breaks to law enforcement. This seems unfair to me. Most probably I should have been arrested. Would I have told the police about my suicide attempt, or would I have just laid in the cell and hoped to die before morning? Most likely the latter. Because being arrested for driving under the influence--even though I was certainly guilty--would have pushed me completely over the edge.

I tried to talk the policemen into driving me to Tim's office, but they proclaimed they weren't a taxi service. After being let off so easily, I didn't want to push them.

"Look, if I call a friend, would that be all right?"

They agreed.

I called Mary, who is so talkative she wears me out. But she is kind-hearted and came to get me. She drove me to Tim's office. By the time all was worked out it was time for him to arrive and I finally confessed my overdose. The reason I wanted to tell him and him only was that I hoped he could find a place besides the top floor of Tuolumne General, the place where the psychiatrist said, "Depression is a result of bitterness." In other words, it was my fault. After I got out that time, I experienced a panic attack similar to the one that started this whole mess.

Tim looked at me with worry. "I'm going to issue a 51/50 on you and have you sent to the hospital. I'm surprised you didn't die...that's a lot of pills."

"Please don't make me go back to TGH," I begged.

In order to avoid that hospital I had played games with suicide prevention on the phone and driven under the influence, all because I know that TGH is a bad place. They warehouse you there. There is little to no therapy and the psychiatrist is unhelpful, if not downright incompetent. It's a bad place to be. I've been in there three times and each time it made me worse.

What's sad is that my friend John still insists I go there when I'm feeling suicidal. I'd rather die than go back there.

"I'll see if I can get you transferred to Stockton. You were worked up for ECT there, so I can probably get Dr. E to OK it."

I felt so relieved.

The ambulance came and took me to a hospital in another small town. I felt loopy. After awhile the sheet underneath me became lumpy and uncomfortable, so I rang the nurse.

Nothing.

More nothing.

So I got up and started to adjust the sheets myself.

A little nurse with short, gray hair saw me. "If you get out of bed again, I'll call the police."

What did she say? That seemed a little over-the-top to me and it pissed me off. I'd had a very bad day so far. I didn't need a "Nurse Ratchett" passing judgment on me for trying to straighten my sheets.

"Fine. You just go do that," I said.

To my surprise there was a lady sheriff's officer in my room within minutes. What the fuck??? Because I'd tried to adjust my sheets.

After drinking the requisite charcoal shake, I waited a few minutes, annoyed that the sheets were digging into pressure points on my back and neck. I have degenerative disc disease and a rather painful neck injury.

Nurse Ratchett reappeared. "What are you doing? Stop wiggling around like that."

"The bed is uncomfortable. I need to adjust the sheets."

"Look," she said. Venom coated every word. "I have patients that are more important than you and you ring the nurse call fifty times."

Fifty times? How did twice get turned into fifty times?

Then came the kicker. "No one forced those pills down your throat so you're just going to have to wait."

Ah, I see. She hated me because I had tried to end it all. Somehow, that fact was too much. I'd been crying practically non-stop, but now I started screaming. "I want to talk to my counselor. I want to talk to him. I want to talk to my counselor."

I got the nurse's name and forgot it three different times because my mind was so shot. She was completely unapologetic about her words and seemed to gloat when I asked for her name. She'd been there for umpteen years and goddammit if some uppity low-life suicide patient was going to make trouble for her. No, she was more concerned with people who wanted to live, not Laura.

I had the feeling that if a rotissary had been available she would have happily strung me up and cooked me while basting me with barbeque sauce.

Then someone came in and told me that I was being transferred to TGH. "No...NO! I can't go there. I'm not supposed to go there. Let me talk to my counselor!"

I screamed and screamed, feeling betrayed and hated. Another sheriff's officer came in and seated himself. Christ? How dangerous can one overdose patient be?

Nurse Ratchet leaned in long enough to say, "Stop having a temper tantrum. There are more important patients than you and your bellowing is interfering with my work."

In my present state of mind it was the final proof: I'm not worth anything, not even fair treatment in a hospital.

I couldn't stop screaming. "I need to talk to Tim. I need to talk to my counselor."

They wouldn't let me. I thought he had betrayed me by sending me to TGH. Then I thought about asking John for a ride earlier. He'd had better things to do. I felt so alone. I felt betrayed. I was in a personal hell where the last two people I trusted had betrayed me, leaving me with people who not only didn't care, but made it known they practically hated me.

I screamed and screamed.

Nurse Ratchett came in with a shot. "What is that? I have a right to know."

"You lost your rights when you swallowed those pills," she said and came at me with the needle.

"NO!" I said. "I'm not letting you give me a shot unless I know what's in it!"

She nodded to the two sheriff's officers who held me down (I didn't struggle) while she unloaded the contents of the syringe into my ass. I still don't know what was in that shot.

On the way to TGH in the ambulance, abdominal cramps ensued. That damn charcoal shake. Horrible, horrible pain. I was embarrassed as some fluids leaked out of my body beyond my control. I was so exhausted, I jsut

Once I got there, the memories are fuzzy. I withdrew into myself, didn't make any waves, didn't tell the psychiatrist squat (she'd hurt me with information before), listened as they adjusted my medication, knowing it wouldn't do any good, listened with amusement as they said they'd get me help with In Home Help Services.

Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit.

I'd heard this line before. I ain't getting nothing, except a measly $787 a month (they raised it $30...oooo, I'm so rich), a rent increase of $450. I've been promised In Home Help Services before and it never materialized. I don't believe any of these people. I don't trust them. When you've been in the "health care" system as long as I have, you will know that it is broken beyond repair. It's not only a money issue. It's a competence issue. I need surgery on my neck, but I'm terrified to do it because I don't trust doctors. In fact, Tim, who isn't a medical doctor, has gotten 90% of my medical care for me by harassing doctors into doing their jobs.

How can this be repaired? I see our current crop of doctors as mostly incompetent. People flock to the few good ones, turning them into burn-outs. How can this be fixed?

Incidentally, Tim didn't betray me and he's quite furious at how the staff at the hospital treated me. My only true friend and I can't call him up and ask him to go see a movie with me.

Moderators, please don't erase this thread just because it's personal. And DU members, please don't try to hurt me and don't harass me about "getting help" and all that. I've been "getting help" for years. It's just that most of the help is pretty lame. I have nowhere to go except TGH if I give the suicide idea another go and fail. To me, that's an incentive to succeed.

and good luck

DDQM

I and his parents miss him very much and understand the suffering he experienced. But we know that the suffering would have eventually improved, probably ended. People who are depressed are generally hopeless. They see others get better, but can't believe it will happen to them. Nothing can help, they believe. But the rest of us know that time, patience, talk, sometimes medicine, and activity (physical and social) do have effects in the short term and in the long run. The most important thing: keep talking. Keep social connections. We at DU are caring people; communicate with us.

Usually I'd come up with a sweet, witty reply. But one escapes me right now.

Might I suggest heading to the store, picking up a copy of your favorite musical artist, and chilling out for a while.

Maybe some weed would help, too.

Maybe there are some DUers in your area who could spend some time with you... you know, just somebody to hang out with and talk to...

P.S. You are a really good writer. That is a special talent and is something to hang on to.

Get hold of Tim as fast as you can, and let's get some of the demons exorcised! This is not a good situation and you need, quickly, to get yourself well.

I know (first hand family experience) that it's hard. But, you really need to get a grip on things and get yourself feeling better about yourself and your life.

You're worth it!
The Professor

except I'm sorry you're going through this. I take anti-depression medication myself and I recently stopped drinking which was just about killing me, so my life ain't sunny, if that helps some.

You just have to believe that you can get your life into a place where living is not painful. If you stick to that belief perhaps it will help, but I'm really inadequate to say much more than that.

Don't give up. If nothing else live just to spite the motherfuckers!

even though I have been through this before . It tore my life apart . I had my panic attacks for the first time alone at college at age 18 . I had a nervous breakdown the summer after my first year of college . I could not afford medication . All I can say as someone who has been through this before , I am holding hands with you in spirit . Figure out if you are depressed because if you are crying someone else's crocidile tears - its not worth it to cry over .

Write down how you feel in a diary .Keep your head up :)

Message removed by moderator. Click here to review the message board rules.

The members of Democratic Underground are not qualified to give you the help you need. While I understand you have not had luck in the past getting professional help, I must again urge you to find someone who is actually qualified to provide you with the help which you need.

I am sorry. But I have to lock this thread.

Skinner
DU Admin

focus on others - kids.

It does not stop the occassional cry but it is much better!

good luck.

:-)

think of your parrot.

depressed all the time.
But, you know, the worse depression I go through, and survive, the stronger I feel.
A lot of this is just perspective...every time you feel bad, try to step back...I know it's really, really hard...it's hard to overcome those feelings...but try hard enough to take a mental step back, have a look at everything you've been through before in terms of your personal strength. You have value- I swear it.
Believe in yourself.

:hug: