The Universe has given me a second chance at life, but getting there was no piece of pie piece of cake. Since this topic is beyond intense both in emotion and construction, I determined it deserves its own page. It deserves the full story. I deserve the right to tell the whole truth. People dislike the truth when it’s ugly and pointed, yah fuck ’em. I almost fucking died, people. The Fresh Prince is assisting me with my intro:
On June 30, 2016, I made my first suicide attempt. I planned it, about 24 hours in advance. The gorgeous creature (pictured right) that had been my life partner for the last 11 years (of her 14 years of life) needed to make her way to doggy heaven and due to the environment I was in, I intended on joining her. We were going to head straight for the beach to play in the sand and dip our feet in the ocean, as we did for years while living in Seattle.
This is a judgey world we live in and everyone wants to know what was sooooo bad that I had no other outlets than to kill myself and this my friends, this is where things get sticky. Not for me. For the people.
My sister and I used to have a relationship that other sisters would kill for. Okay, bad choice of words, but true … we just had it. We were opposites, yet besties. I would have done anything for my sister. ANYTHING. When I became disabled back in 2013, she did the most amazing thing of opening up her home to me and I will be forever grateful to her for that; I also believe I went above and beyond to show gratitude while I was a resident of her household for the last three years and that is an area where we greatly differ in opinion. On more than one occasion, my sister has called me selfish and ungrateful. But the most important occasion led directly up to my suicide attempt. However, to be absolutely fair, my sister is only the smaller half of the people.
- On June 28 at 4:34 PM I sent a text to my sister and my parents, letting them know that the Veterinarian from Caring Pathways would be at the house at June 29 at 8:00 am to put my dog, Ninook, to sleep.
- Minutes later, the family (sister, her husband, niece and nephew) came home from work/school
- I was downstairs, laying on Ninook, crying my eyes out. My niece and nephew ran in through the garage door, crying as well.
- Silly me – I assumed my sister shared the news (I also assumed the family loved Ninook) but instead they said, “You have 20 minutes to get out” and I was completely, WTF?
- Then my sister came in, calmly asking me if I scratched Steve’s (Vasilion, the 1.5 person that my sister shotgun married) bike or something to that effect.
FOR THE RECORD: I was not even within breathing distance of Steve’s bike that day, nor did I even know it was in the garage. As far as I understood, he rode it to work everyday while my sister delivered and collected the kids from school. On that day, AFTER my sister called and yelled at me, labeling me “SO UNGRATEFUL” and whatever the fuck else stupid ridiculous unwarranted shit she said, I had simply walked out the front door to my car and put some boxes in it. To do so, I had to remove the kids car seats from my back seat. I took the car seats out, carried them to the other side of the driveway, placed them in the grass and then went back inside the house through the front door.
Here’s the bigger point – Donut Hole thought I scratched his bike, yet instead of coming inside the house and saying something like, “hey Kristin can I talk to you?” Steve proceeded to walk around outside yelling profanities and saying I have 20 minutes to get the fuck out of the house. Had he spoken to me like an adult and had I in fact, been responsible, I would have told him to get a fucking estimate and the bill would have been paid by ME.
My sister, stood by his side the entire night and not one person mentioned Ninook. Not one person supported ME. And as if this all was not traumatic enough, several hours later while I was still laying with Ninook sobbing, Steve walks about 2 stairs down and attempts to throw this piece of paper as far as he can (it was kind of funny to watch the fat flail and by the way – the syntax of this notice supports the level of dumbass I was dealing with).
If you are not getting the picture … let me recap and summarize swiftly:
- I was being accused by way of everyone (INCLUDING a 5 and 8 year old) except for Steve (ya DICK) of defacing his prized possession while waiting for my prized possession and life partner 14-year-old-dog to be taken away from me forever.
- BTW – Sticky Bun’s just mad because Ninook hated his potato chip filled guts. As they say, dogs are the best judges, character FAIL, fuckface.
- I am a 110 pound disabled chick and he is a 400 pound asshole. “Have me removed”?
- I stayed up all night with Ninook, I did not want to miss one minute of her remaining time with me especially since we have spent almost 24/7 of the past 3 years together, and when the family got up and ready/left for work and school, not one of them said goodbye to Ninook. NOT ONE. That is something I will NEVER forgive my sister for.
- I may, however, someday, forgive my sister for supporting her husband over me even though he was lying pieface, but I will never forget and our “sister” relationship is non-existent for eternity. I swear on Ninook’s life, there is not a thing in the world she could do or say to be my sister ever again. I wish the future Janice (Julie) and Peter (Apple Fritter) all the best as a couple though, they are clearly a match made in Donna’s Heaven surrounded by chips and dip.
- I digress.
My final major in college was Psychology and I did a Suicide study once while at work, targeting only women. The question was, if you were going to off yourself, which of the following methods would be most desirable: Now I would be lying if I said I recalled the results in total, however, I do know that the majority of the responses were #2, Pills (as predicted), because women are vain and they typically don’t really want to die they just want the attention OR they want to be certain they still look pretty in the casket.
If I had a Colorado license, I would have purchase a gun and used it. Swear on my gorgeous girl’s life I would have. I WANTED to die. I’m sorry to anyone who is hurt by hearing this but again, it is the truth. Luckily, I am a chronic pain patient so pills are something I have in large supply and I was 100% confident this would be a complete success. I also did feel that it was a much fairer method for family discovery and burial so presumably, a win win.I found half a bottle of Advil PM in the kitchen and a full/unopened bottle in the upstairs hall closet, 180 pills total. Then, I basically took every single bottle of pills I had in my collection and dumped them in one container. This consisted of 2 types of muscle relaxers, Lyrica, Cymbalta, Tramadol, and Topamax. I took the latter set of pills first, about an hour after the Veterinarian left and the fuckers put me to sleep for a while but it seemed that when I awoke I was only feeling extremely loopy, so I immediately downed all of the 200 Advil PM pills (this took FOR-EVVVVVER) and finally, it was happening. Anytime I even attempted just to walk around, I fell. Hard.
The next thing I recall was Steve standing at the top of the stairs screaming at me, “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!!” because apparently I had folded some of his clothes … and my sister was agreeing, “Kristin, something is wrong with you, you need to go. Lets find you a hotel or something.” I remember saying I had to wait until they came for Nookie first and her responding that Nookie wasn’t here and then I remembered what the dealio was – I was just waiting to meet Ninook at the beach, WHEW! Then Weeble Wobble called the Police on me (I guess that’s what he meant by having me “removed”) so I went into my room and grabbed the empty pill bottles saying, “don’t worry! I will be out of here really soon once these all finally work” (roughly reworded). My sister just looked at me and then she started dialing, “no, we’re gonna get you some help.” Ohhhhh nowwwwwww you want to help me? Hilarious!
When all of the Policemen walked down to my room I immediately went on the defense about the stupid bitch’s bike, but the officers wanted to back burner the “she scratched Cheesecake’s pussy mobile” whines to address my pill filled tummy. Honestly, I was just babbling to buy myself time to die, even though finally, there were some REAL peeps in my presence who did not give two shits about the Dough Boy’s ridic ranting. F I N A L L Y, people actually cared about me.
When the police and firemen were having their way with me I was PISSED (never thought I’d say that before ;-). I wanted to die, yet they had a job to do. The last thing I remember is them having to tie me down from head to toe in the ambulance because I untied myself so many times and tried to escape the ambulance twice (I also recall the super-hot-fire-dude getting SOOOOO frustrated he had to call for backup). Eventually, I passed out, until about July 4th.
Broken Record – I almost fucking died, the truth is the truth and if people can’t handle hearing it then they should learn how to tell it.
I am not sure what exact time or day I awoke in the hospital but my first memory of being there was the evening of July 4th. There was a woman at the corner end of my bed sitting in a chair (watching me) and next to her was a stand with a camera on it. She told me to order food and I think I did but I was still pretty out of it. I do remember having the worst stomach cramps and making frequent bathroom runs. July 5th I recollect clearly, I was awake and coherent all day. The hospital shrink came in and asked me if I still wanted to harm myself and my response … “where is the nearest bridge?”. He then told me they could not release me home and that I would be taken to the nearest mental health facility as soon as they found a spot. I was so miserable, I desperately still wanted to die. I really, truly, just wanted to die.
Felipa, Felipa was her name. If it was not for Felipa, I may not be here today. I had so many ideas I tell you, I thought about changing my mind and lying to the hospital to get released and then jumping off the highway overpass. I thought about finding a syringe to put air bubbles in my line. I was going to wander the hall way to find a scalpel to slice my wrists. Felipa saved my life. She was one of the hospital technicians, I believe they are a step down from nurses, but several steps up in compassion.Felipa was like sunshine and a rainbow in human form, she talked to me and took care of me as if I was her own flesh and blood. She helped me take a shower and treated me with such respect, I have never felt so much love and warmth from a stranger in my entire life. Felipa saved me, I owe her my life. Sadly, I was transferred the next day, July 6, without being able to say goodbye. I would love to have stayed in contact with her. I wish her continued happiness for all eternity!!!The crazy house is just like on TV. People walk up and down the halls either talking to themselves, to their hand, or to an invisible entity. Meds are delivered through a window at predesignated times and the window is dressed with a heavy dark metal garage like door. It hurts your feelings when it is slammed in your face. Actually, it pisses you the fuck off because it is usually done intentionally TO piss you off. You are assigned a different nurse twice a day, a doctor once a day and a social worker once a day. You sleep on a twin bed made of wood with a simple mat and toddler sized lightly filled pillow. Breakfast is at 9:00 am sharp, the first group session usually starts after 10 am and groups go on until about 4 pm.Group therapy sessions with a mix of head cases is quite interesting. I am stating the facts here … half the room tried to off themselves, the other half thinks they are God or that someone is after them. The whole room is supposed to participate in groups together and the more participative you are, the sooner you will be released from the hospital. In a nutshell, the group sessions were fucked up and the only thing I learned in the crazy house was that I was not crazy and after 6 days, I was released because of back to back migraines from the unaccommodating bedding situation. The next two weeks were hell. My Mother had the undesirable job of telling me that my ex-sister would not let me come back to the house so my parents did the majority of the packing and I was allowed to stop over to the house twice, as long as I only went straight to the room I stayed in and steered clear of any other areas of the house. Then we hit the road, driving the 1880 miles from Denver, CO to Holley, NY and the rest is in process. The bottom line – I lived for a reason. The Universe decided my life is not done being lived yet. I was given a second chance, and I intend on making it count.
P.S. I am a NY’er born and raised, Fuck is in our dictionary and while I am sorry if you are not fond of it, I am not sorry for being fond of using it passionately. Thank you for understanding. I would never use it on the Dr. Phil Show of course. 🙂
NOTE: Caring Pathways out of Denver, CO is UH-mazing, I highly suggest using their services if you find yourself in that unfortunate situation.