Over two weeks medication free now. Had a bad week initially, then I had a really good week (by my standards anyway!) and now, now I'm not too sure. On Monday I saw my doctor. I told him I wasn't gonna take anti-depressants anymore, but that I still needed a sleeping pill prescription. I'm a terrible sleeper. 3am, 4am, 5am, 6am, I'm always awake.
Being awake when the rest of the world is sleeping, god, I think it's one of the worst things. From my window, I watch as the lights in all the other apartments go off. It's really lonely. It's really hard not to feel like you just wish you weren't here.
My doctor said he was worried that I'm becoming dependent on sleeping tablets. Of course I am! I've tried sleeping unaided. I just lie in the dark becoming increasingly frustrated. I understand why he is concerned. The last time he gave me my months supply, I took 'em all in one go.
My counsellor has been urging me to write a blog about what we refer to as, 'The Mater incident'. I've been really hesitant because, I dunno, it's not exactly the kind of thing you want people to know about you. I think a lot of people would see me as being really carefree, laid-back, determined, strong. None of that is true at all.
'The Mater incident'. It was a Thursday morning, in March. I hadn't slept in quite a while. I decided I'd take a bath. I hadn't been a self-harmer in a good few months, but I found myself smashing a razor, to get the blades out. I can't have been thinking straight. I cut myself over and over and then I felt like I was right back where I used to be.
The water must have been cold for a long time before I noticed. I drank a litre of vodka. I didn't have anything to mix it with, but there was mouthwash on a shelf by the bath so I figured that'd do the trick.
A friend of mine at the time began ringing me then and I remember thinking, "Please leave me alone". I got into bed and inside my pillow case, I had 28 Zimovane. So I took them. Washing them down with Peach Schnapps. I honestly did not care what happened. I was hoping I could sleep. Just sleep.
It didn't work out like that though. I don't remember what happened next. Apparently I was conscious for some of the trip to the hospital but I don't remember ever being in an ambulance. I can't picture the paramedics, if I was put in the room I was in in the hospital now, I'd think it was my first time being there.
When there was talk of me being admitted to the psychiatric unit, I did the very last thing I should have done. I mustered up whatever strength I could find, and left. I walked out. There I was, on the street, in pyjamas, and only somewhat alert. I think deep down I sort of hoped someone would say, "Sarah, you don't have a choice here, you need to get better", but no one did. So I went home.
Now I get sleeping pills dispensed four at a time. The lady in the chemist doesn't tell me how to take them anymore. In fact, she says, "Oh hi, I have your tablets ready for you!". I know that she's being sweet but it makes me feel terrible. I leave wondering how did I become someone who can't be trusted, is it always going to be like this, what do I have to do to not be on first name terms with the local pharmacist, lovely and all as she is.
I have been feeling better lately, a lot better, but the truth is, no matter what, the battle is still on-going. It's funny that I'm feeling pretty okay now, but I can't stop worrying about the next time. Everything in my life is touched by sadness, even my happiness. 'Cause I know it's only a matter of time before it comes to an end.
The song I've been listening to on repeat while writing this blog :