I’ve read through this entire thread just to see what the state of things is 😳. Honestly, there’s no point in trying to steer the conversation back on track, and if I actually tried to catch up on every single comment, it would take me a month.
So, here’s the breakdown... Back in the spring of 2014, everything just fell apart for me. I was on several medications at the time—Seroquel XR and others—and I had a complete mental breakdown. It wasn't just a bad day; I was seeing hallucinations, losing my grip, and ended up smashing mirrors and setting things on fire. To make matters worse, my ex-husband—who, mind you, had been living in a guest house on the property for over six months following our divorce—was being incredibly difficult about the cars. He was acting like he owned the place, insisting on certain vehicles, and since the neighbors were complaining about the friction, I eventually just handed him the car 😵 to keep the peace. I'm still on medication, but I frequently lose touch with reality. I actually volunteered to go to the hospital because I knew I needed help. I haven't seen my regular doctor in three years, and this new one has been drugging me so heavily that I barely know who I am. I spend most of my time sleeping, and she keeps administering an injection that she claims is an antipsychotic (actually via injection, which is wild) that just sends me into a spiral. Eventually, my regular doctor went on vacation, and her replacement sent me over to Restekica on Ward 10. While I was on Ward 10, I tried to talk about my hallucinations—since that was the whole reason I was admitted—but instead of help, I just got lectured for every symptom I described. After all that condescension, they decided the best move was for me to go live with my father. Even though I wasn't exactly "put together" yet, staying there allowed me to see how life actually functions in that household. I started realizing that my father, my uncles, and my aunts are all essentially broken; they've aged, they've become cynical, and they have absolutely no clue—or perhaps they've simply forgotten—about my actual medical needs. The only person I can truly talk to is my brother, who has lived there for a long time and possesses enough patience to actually listen to me. I feel like he's the only one who loves me, so he's my primary connection. He tells me things like, "Don't take them too seriously; you have to understand how they are," but I already know that—they've always been this way. About two weeks before I was supposed to head home, I realized I wasn't satisfied with the situation 🙂 when I discovered a lump in my breast. I kept quiet, but after the doctors ran some blood work, they found my prolactin levels were around 2500 (when a normal range is roughly 300–400). Apparently, the stress and constant lecturing from the staff caused it. I completely spiraled and went back to my old doctor once she returned from vacation. She reacted normally and suggested we discharge me so I could get testing done at Sunce or Medica. But no. My father insisted I stay put and head straight to the MD Anderson Cancer Center. My doctor just gave him a blank look and allowed me to have outings once a week. At the MD Anderson Cancer Center, they determined the cyst was benign, but they still wanted to remove it. My legs started shaking just thinking about it; I’ve never even had surgery, let alone something involving my breasts 😲. The comments from my family were classic: "Well, I have both breasts and I only married twice," or "My friend had one just like that and didn't get it removed, then it turned malignant." Still, I managed to scrape together enough willpower to endure their nonsense. I stayed on a routine—rolling with the punches, cleaning, cooking, sticking to a diet—and managed to drop down to 120 pounds. I lost my appetite, but I’d still eat whatever was cooked with them. Meanwhile, my dad and the rest of the crew are watching the World Cup (yes, we are still stuck in 2014), drinking wine, eating finger foods, and laughing without a shred of empathy, all while forcing me into bed by 10 PM. I’d listen to my dad and stepmother arguing, snap, and end up right back in the hospital. My doctor didn't know what to do with me anymore, so she just kept prescribing this cocktail of about eight different meds, including 400mg of Seroquel XR, mostly "new" drugs that I had never encountered before. Being "home" felt like a joke; I couldn't believe why I was back in the hospital. As for the people in the hospital, they're okay; I socialize with everyone a little bit. I sneak some cigarettes, though I don't smoke weed like the rest of the crowd 🤣. After five months, I was finally discharged. I went to the beach at 120 pounds, carrying a pharmacy of eight different types of pills, accompanied by my father. I asked my stepmother to come along, but she insisted I’d have a better time with just him. I could barely walk, though I tell myself I was just being lazy. So, it's now July 2014. I got divorced in July 2013, and my ex didn't move out until after Easter 2014. I’m still living with my dad. At the beach, I don't really socialize; I just do crosswords, listen to the radio on my headphones, watch TV, and try to convince my dad to let me go to sleep by 11 PM. The neighbors stare at me, wondering what's wrong. They ask things like, "What are you afraid of?" but most realize it's better not to pry. I communicate to a certain extent with people I've known for years. However, three days before heading home, the idea hit me: I wanted to die from the sheer embarrassment of it all. I had been receiving far too many "depressive" suggestions. I had plenty of medication—enough for a month, but in my mind, more than enough to end it all. I decided I wouldn't do it at the beach; I'd wait until I was home to avoid causing too much of a scene. In those three days, I went out for coffee, acting cheerful because I felt like I had finally solved my problems. I chatted with everyone (essentially saying my goodbyes), but of course, I kept my mouth shut. I had my last coffee, said goodbye to the beach, and we arrived back at my dad's. There it was again—the same scenery. I didn't feel accepted, let alone understood. Then came that evening; it felt like the middle of the day, and I sat on the bed and laid out EVERY single pill I had. I didn't have any left from before because I had thrown those away earlier. It was hard, but I saw no way out. Even with the thought lingering in my mind that suicide is forbidden, I just started taking them, one by one. There must have been over 300 tablets; I washed them all down with a liter and a half of water and fell asleep..........
