A Diamond-Encrusted Turd

On this week's dirt, a little essay I wrote a few years back that has been polished up like a diamond-encrusted turd...

My eyes are red and swollen, and tears are streaming down my face. They taste salty and wet on my lips. I can't sit in my glider rocker and enjoy a cup of hot, steaming coffee. I must escape to my laundry room.

The cream walls, normally bright in the morning sunshine, look dingy today, reflecting my gloomy mood. The white enamel of the washer looks grey.

Depression has hit me like a sledgehammer again, telling me I am a failure as a mother. It brings up the time I brought my eldest son on vacation with my lover, the time I hit my daughter when she was screaming.

I can hear my youngest son careening around the living room. I knew I was wise to hide, escape, not let him see me in this vulnerable state.

I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder type I at the age of 18. The manic phases fly me higher than the clouds and I make bad choices of epic proportions. On the flip side, there have been severe lows that have led to several suicide attempts. How many pills does it take to kill oneself?

My first attempt was at the age of 15. I poured the pills in my hand and counted as I swallowed them down with a fizzy Coca-Cola. First I swallowed eight. Then another eleven. Another nine poured from the bottle to my hand to my mouth. When the bottle was gone, 79 pills had been emptied into my stomach. I had also finished three-quarters can of Coke, the carbonation fizzing in my throat, the pills sinking into my body. The liquid charcoal would follow an hour and a half later.

Imagine going to your grill and taking out a piece of charcoal, grinding it up, adding water, and drinking it. Choke on the grittiness as you feel every piece make its way by your teeth, down your throat, and into your stomach. There it deactivates the poison of the pills. But wait! Your stomach churns, and you feel a dribble of air go up into the back of your mouth. Your hair stands up on the back of your neck, and you get that nervous feeling. You know what's happening next; something's coming up. You get sweaty and you start shaking. Or at least, I did.

The charcoal came up strong and fast. Thick, black mess got on my pants. I clutched the pink bucket they had given me to catch my vomit with all my might, my fingers white and straining. When I was done, the nurse took the bucket and sifted through it with her gloved hands.

"What is this?" she asked me, trying to determine what the unidentified glob was.

"Chocolate chip cookie," I answered.

That may have been my first suicide attempt, but it was not my last. How many pills does it take to kill oneself? I will never know. There were bottles of medications that I took in my attempts. I didn't count how many pills on those times. I did have to drink more charcoal. The vomit was still the same, but not the chocolate chip cookie.

Was that the only way I tried to kill myself? No. There was the suicide attempt that wasn't an attempt. I was manic, and I had just come home from a wonderful Valentine's date with my boyfriend. I sat down at the dining room table. I thought to myself, I'm invincible: no matter what I do, nothing will ever hurt me. Getting up and walking to the bathroom, I retrieved a straight-edged razor from the vanity. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks were flushed a healthy pink. My lips were slightly swollen from all the kisses my boyfriend and I had exchanged earlier. My eyes were a brilliant green, sharp with the lights of the vanity shining in them. I was beautiful. I was wild. I was not in my right mind. However, I could not recognize that fact.

I walked back to the table with a spring in my step, a dancer prancing across the stage in front of an audience. Sitting in that hard chair, my mind pondered which wrist I would pick on: left, right, left, right. I finally decided on the right. Insanity makes no wise decisions. Pressing the razor down to the soft skin, I sliced. Blood spurted across the table like water being turned on in a pressure hose. I stared at the crimson puddle forming with no interest, no wonder, no horror at what I'd done. There was a subtle thought of, "Gee, I've made a mess." I walked over to the sink and let the blood drip in there. I continued staring. What should I do?

My stepdad called the ambulance. I was rushed down to the hospital and 12 stitches were sewn into my wrist. I was disappointed there were only red flashing lights on the ambulance. I craved the excitement of the sirens. I wanted a thrilling story to tell: the goriness of the blood, the flashing of lights and ringing of sirens, and a handsome doctor stitching me up. Alas, I had a kind, salt-and-pepper doctor stitch my wrist. He asked me how I was feeling. I explained to him that I'd had an accident. After all, I wasn't suicidal. I was on top of the world! It was my first experience of psychotic euphoria, but I didn’t have a name for it at that time. That poor doctor didn’t have a clue what he was dealing with. He let me go home with my stepdad.

Depression. Mania. It's the bipolar world. Some people get insulted when folks use the word "crazy." I don't. I feel as though I have earned my title. I have fought hard to get where I am, and I will hold my head high as I walk through the fires with my “crazy crown” on.

I've spent many years researching mental health issues. I figure that I have mental illnesses, and I reserve the right to call myself crazy. My suicide attempts and manic bad decisions are a small peek into when my mind goes astray.

When I'm in a bad place, I'm a selfish person. My kids, unfortunately, know this bad person. They've heard me scream at the dishwasher, the vacuum cleaner, the dogs, even them. I've sat them in front of the television while I overdosed on pills, slowly feeling myself slipping away as they sat and watched Blue's Clues.

My husband came home, found me almost dead, and called an ambulance. I remember the EMTs hooking up a pulse monitor to me. My pulse was racing at 180 beats per minute. I thought to myself, "So this is how I die." I only felt this calm, peaceful feeling. There was no worry. I didn’t think about my children. I wasn't worried about who was watching them, or what kind of memories I was giving them by what they had seen or were seeing.

Now, however, I beat myself up.

Bipolar disorder sucks. How many more suicide attempts will there be? How many more manic phases will nearly destroy my family? The tears are no longer streaming down my face, and I pray that my children will never have to experience the emotions that I'm dealing with themselves.

 I hope that they only know bipolar disorder in the sense of growing up watching their mother go through it.

Until next week's dirt...