BPD and SI: The Day It Almost All Ended

TRIGGER WARNING: This post contains depiction of a suicide attempt.

On June 24, 2024, I attempted to take my life. My husband and I had a huge fight, and he told me he wanted a divorce. I was devastated and couldn't think straight. He left the house on an errand, and I went straight for the Klonopin. I grabbed my water bottle and the pills and told my son I was going for a walk. My son is not stupid. He knew there was something going on, but he never would have imagined what I was about to do. He hugged me and told me he loved me and said to have a good walk. And off I went.

Our house backs up to woods, so I made my way through the tall grass and overgrown brush and found a tree to sit under. I sent my husband a text, it was more logistical than anything else. Passwords to accounts and who to contact for the life insurance. And apologies. So many apologies. I don't remember exactly what was said, I have never looked back on that text. My husband immediately started calling me. He had gotten home, which I didn't know, and was walking around the property screaming my name, which I didn't hear. He got the car and parked it on the side road. He knew I was in the woods; he just had a feeling. He just couldn't find exactly where I was.

By now I had started downing the pills. I had quite a collection of them, as that was the one medication I didn't take every day, and I kept getting refills even though I wasn't out. I had no idea how many pills were in the bottle, but I estimated around 60. And I was going to take them all. Until I ran out of water. I cursed myself for not bringing enough and started to swallow handfuls without any water. I choked and gagged but kept on trying to get more down. All the while my phone rang, and my husband was searching for me.

I don't know what made me do it, maybe it was just to hear his voice one more time, but I finally answered the phone. My husband was desperate and pleading. I was starting to doubt I had enough pills to die. I looked up at the sky and cried. I just wanted it all to end but there my husband was on the phone pleading with me. I love him, I couldn’t stand the begging any more. So, I told him I was right behind the house under a tree. About 5 minutes later he found me.

He grabbed the bottle of pills out of my hand and helped me up. He was frantic, asking me how many pills I had taken. I don’t remember what I told him, but he says I told him 30. I know it was much more than that, but my memory at this point is foggy. He grabbed my arm and forcefully led me out of the forest on to the street where the car was parked. He hastily put me in the car and jumped in the driver’s seat. He took off for the hospital. I wish I could remember the conversation we had, but I just don’t. And by the time we got to the hospital I couldn’t walk by myself; I was too out of it. So a wheelchair was grabbed and into the emergency room I went.

Again, I don’t remember much about being in the ER. I do remember my husband very vocally demanding that I not be sent to the hospital I had been in back in March (a post about that horrid place is forthcoming). I know they attempted to get a urine sample from me several times, but it was like a Three Stooges routine with me unable to stand on my own or aim my pee into a cup. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so awful.

What I remember from the next 3 days is beyond fuzzy. I have a vague recollection of the children visiting me. I had no idea, though, until my husband mentioned it after I had been released from the hospital. Apparently the youngest stole my apple juice. But I slept. Boy did I sleep. They had what I called a babysitter there at all times, including overnight. I was in and out of consciousness, apparently arguing with my husband about having my phone so I could email work and reach out to my friend. Work was the last thing on his mind. But my mind was already racing. If I was going to live, I had to keep my job. I had to let them know I was going to be out. I had to think of something to tell them. But my husband insisted I just take care of myself and worry about the rest later.

On day 4 I was finally more awake and myself. There was discussion of my going back inpatient. The doctor told me I could sign the form and go in voluntarily, or they would commit me involuntarily. I chose to sign the form. The ER I had been admitted to did not have a psychiatric ward associated with the hospital. But their sister hospital in the city next to us did, and that’s where they sent me. What an incredible difference from the hell hole I was in back in March. This place was lovely, with a caring staff and doctors who listened. I was there for 7 days and discharged on new medications.

I attended a partial hospitalization program (PHP) for 3 weeks after my discharge. I graduated from that program with a certificate and everything. Unfortunately, though, this would not be my last attempt (though it was the worst) or last inpatient. Far from the last inpatient. But there are many more posts to come describing these.

I was lucky. I didn’t take enough pills to kill me. I had a loving family that helped me through the ordeal. I had friends who supported me and loved me throughout. Many people aren’t as lucky. Please know, if you ever feel like you want to give up, talk to someone. I promise you those thoughts don’t last. Especially if you talk it through. If you have thoughts of suicide or harming yourself, you can call 988 for the Suicide and Crisis Hotline, or 911 if you’re in immediate danger. Please don’t try to handle these thoughts on your own. There are people out there who love you and can help.