There's no nice or clever way to say any of this, so let's just get right down to it.
On Saturday, June 2nd, 2018, I overdosed on a combination of Xanax, Ativan and alcohol.
It was not an accident.
You don't swallow a 90-day supply's worth of benzos by accident. You swallow them by handful after deliberate handful.
It was far from the first time I contemplated doing just that, but it was the first time I decided to follow the dark thoughts down the rabbit hole.
I don't actually remember any the following, but the facts appear to be:
- After passing out on the bathroom floor for awhile, I somehow managed to make it down several flights of stairs to Jason, who was watching TV in the basement.
- After unsuccessfully trying to make me throw up, he called 911.
- An ambulance took me to the ER, where I was intubated, restrained and deeply sedated.
- (I was also, according to my report, deeply "combative" and definitely nobody's favorite patient that night.)
- I spent most of Sunday in the ICU, drifting in and out of consciousness. Usually just long enough to claw at the painful tube in my throat and then decide that nope, I do not like this dream, I shall go back to sleep now.
I do remember waking up for good at some point on Monday.
A few hours later, I was transferred to the hospital's inpatient psych ward. I spent the rest of a very surreal (and yet brutally, soberingly real) week there.
I am home now.
I am here now.
And thank goodness, I'm here to stay.