Every year that June 1st rolls around, it hits me in different ways. The first alive-aversary was a bit shocking. I think I have some old handwritten journals I could flip through to find my real feelings from that time (and I still think maybe I'll go back through them). I think by the third anniversary, I had forgotten about it. I felt bad for forgetting, when I realized it a few days later. Sometimes the day passes without incident, sometimes I look at the clock a lot. At least once, I have stayed up until the early hours of the morning, remembering, how x years ago, I was getting carted away in the ambulance, throwing up in a small bowl, falling asleep naked on a gurney, struggling to stay awake while the nurse asked me questions. Ask me later, why are you asking me now?
I'll still be here in the morning, though that wasn't really the intent when I fought to wash down 18 pills, one at a time, with water filled over and over in a Dixie cup. It wasn't until a few years ago that I really accepted the overdose as a suicide attempt. I wonder if that seems silly to other people, but there probably aren't a lot of people out there that will admit, if they even see, the humor in these kinds of situations.
It's hard to see it that way when most of what you remember is thinking, "I just want to wake up and have everything be better."
What I hate most about the overdose is that I don't remember a lot. It's not selective memory. It's just my memory. It sucks. It always has. With executive functioning disorder, I have trouble holding onto details, and I think it's also common for depressed folks to have poor memories. There's a lot of things going on in your head when your depressed and even big events get blurry, especially with the passage of time. I tried to document the events over and over after I got out of the hospital and I still have some of those records, but there's a lot lost. Maybe it's disassociation.
What I love about what happened is that it's my story to tell on my own terms. Nobody asks me about it. I can talk about it when I want, stop when I'm done. Thanks, stigma-on-depression-and-suicide-attempts. You are playing in my favor.
To be honest, I can't dwell at all on how my family might think about it. Maybe they remember June 1st with sadness (too). I can't talk to them about it (if you read this, I'm sorry, but I really can't).
I think, this year, I'll take a long walk with Hulky. Maybe I'll wear something pretty. Perhaps I'll cook us up some steaks.
(I've written about my history and overdose before.)
This entry is a little early this year. I like the idea of posting on my actual alive-aversary on June 1st, but these are the feelings with me today.