Apparently Dr M thought I was making a lot of progress in the unit. I’d clearly said the right thing during the dreaded Ward Round on a Thursday morning. They wanted to send me home; discharge me from being an impatient… And I was terrified. They agreed to let me have one whole week of leave to see how I coped. I could go back at any time if I couldn’t manage and there would also be someone at the end of a phone at all times.
S was also given leave for the same week. And we made plans.
I can’t remember if I lied about where I was or not. I probably did. My family were extremely concerned about the relationship S and I had. At this point it was purely platonic. S was one of the only men I couldn’t control with sex.
S lived in a one bedroomed flat in a, shall we say less fortunate part of the city. I went there with a weekly prescription of Zopiclone (the Dr had given me double strength ones for whatever reason), a few bottles of wine and a bag of Cocaine that I scored from my abusive ex earlier in the week.
I remember going to S’ flat. I remember doing drugs and drinking. But the last thing I remember it was 5pm in the afternoon. The rest of it is all a blur until I came round properly a few days later in a hospital bed; questioning the nurse on why I was there.
I have managed to piece together bits of what happened. But even now after so many years I will never quite know the exact truth.
S claims he went to bed and left me asleep on the sofa. He woke up the next morning and I wasn’t in the livingroom. But my belongings were. He checked the kitchen incase I was making tea… Nope. Not there either. All that was there was an empty strip of his medication; Clopromazine. A heavy duty anti psychotic.
There was only one other place I could have been…
He knocked on the door a few times but there was no answer so he kicked the door in. I was lying there on the floor on my right side. My right leg bent underneath me. S tried to wake me up but I was like a rag doll. So he made me a cup of coffee. I smacked it out of his hand “I don’t fucking like coffee!!!”. He tried to get me up off the floor but I kept on and on about how my leg was hurting. So he rang an ambulance.
S was sectioned under the Mental Health Act so once the paramedics arrived for me; a team from the psychiatric unit arrived for him. I believe the unit called my parents and they went straight to the hospital with my current boyfriend DL.
There isn’t much I remember from this. It’s hard to decipher what are actual memories and what are false memories, generated by my brain. I remember hallucinating about a pink thing in my bed, but aside from that it is all blank until a few days later.
I came round whilst a nurse was doing some observations one morning. I was confused. “Why am I here?” I asked the nurse. “Because of all those pills you took” she responded. It made absolutely no sense. “But that was two months ago. Why am I here now?“. She fobbed me off; telling me to ask the Dr when he did his rounds.
My Auntie arrived and was pleased to see that I was coherent. I burst out crying. I couldn’t remember a thing. She knew then that this wasn’t suicide or a cry for help. It was just me doing what I do best; trying to get high. But it all went wrong. So, so wrong.
When the Dr arrived I had apparently told them whilst I was high that I had taken loads of the Escitalopram. I hadn’t; I knew I hadn’t. That was the first time. Not this time. I’d clearly had some sort of State Dependant Memory relapse whilst I’d been high. I’d told the Dr I’d taken those pills because the last time I was there in that state, I had.
After a couple of days I began to feel worse by the minute. The nurse came to give me a bed bath and I refrained. Said I could do it myself. I couldn’t. I couldn’t even stand up.
My sats were dropping rapidly and I was sent for a radioactive scan of all my internal organs. I couldn’t stop crying. I felt so ill. When I was eventually wheeled out of the assessment room on my bed my parents and my auntie were sat in tears. They explained that I was really really poorly. My kidneys were failing.
I went back to the ward where the Dr explained they would have to put me to sleep to see if they could make me better. I agreed. I would have agreed to anything. I had never felt so ill. My parents, my auntie and DL came to say goodbye. I told DL that if I didn’t pull through he had to move on. It was heartbreaking.
The Drs and nurses were trying to put a cannula in my arm. But as my internal organs were failing they couldn’t get to any of my veins. I shouted once more about how they were making me look like an addict with track marks all over my arms. Oh the irony. They eventually found a vein in my foot. I was injected with a sedative and told to count backwards from 20….
And I was gone.