I hate going to the doctor. Not always, but today I hate it. I’m shaking all over, worried about her response to what I will say.
“I overdosed yesterday. I took 60 milligrams of oxycontin. I wanted to kill myself.”
Her face changed from cheerful familiarity to careful concern as she asked about my mental state at the moment.
“Any sense of worthlessness or hopelessness?”
Yes, all the time.
And she increased the dosage of antidepressants that I was already on. I was still alive, and I was grateful. But not yesterday. Yesterday was the day that I tried to kill myself.
It was a Sunday. I woke up, and felt an overwhelming sense of guilt.
“I killed my mom. That’s what my dad said. That I killed her. Right now, I believe it. Should I go to the authorities and turn myself in?” I wrote, confused and in turmoil.
The turmoil continued throughout church that morning. And my mind, instead of focusing on the sermon, wandered to the medicine cabinet laden with pain medication left over from my mom’s battle with cancer. Home from church, alone in my room, clutched with thoughts that I hate. I have a bottle of these pills with me. How much will it take to kill me?
I wrote a note, in case I didn’t make it. I told people that I loved them, that it wasn’t their fault, and that the money used for my college tuition should be used for my friends who can’t afford college.
And I took a pill. Then another. And another. After the third, I began to feel the effects. Suddenly, my eyelids were leaded, my head was swimming, and my stomach wasn’t staying where it was supposed to.
Suddenly terrified, I texted someone for help and contacted a suicide hotline. My best friend called me, and when I told her what I did, she sobbed out one syllable.
“Call Jessica!” She begged me, in tears. I was in a fog, barely awake, barely speaking, barely able to think. But I called Jessica. I called the faithful woman who had taken me under her wing and offered counsel. She drove up to my house, and took me to town to buy the antidote for an opiate overdose. Throughout the ride, I felt like I was in a fog. We made small talk, because the elephant in the car was the fact that my life was dangling by a thread.
On the way back, I had to ask her to pull over so that I could throw up on the side of the road. By this time, by stomach was emptied of all food. And it was the first time anyone had ever seen me in this state. I sat back down, newly exhausted and thoroughly embarrassed. I was completely helpless.
And at home again, alone in bed, still feeling the effects of one of the worst days of my life. Exhausted, and slightly terrified, terrified of what would happen now. The next morning, I took all of the leftover pain pills, and flushed them down the toilet. My mind was still being plagued with suicidal thoughts.
And now, I’m at the doctor. She increased the dosage of my antidepressants. But the Lord increased my desire to live. He renewed my love for himself, and showed me the great love he has for me. And I am alive, only by his grace. And I want to stay alive, to honor him with the life that he saved.