Today is my 2 week anniversary.
On Friday, August 29, 2008, I killed myself.
On Saturday, August 30, 2008, exactly two weeks ago, I woke up and everything was different.
You need to understand the statements above are not figurative and this is not some exaggerated story that backtracks to explain what I’m really talking about.
On Friday, two weeks and one day ago, in the city of Lompoc CA, I went into my bathroom, closed and locked the door, popped two Wellbutrin in my mouth and swallowed.
Using the stop watch on my cell phone I began swallowing one more Wellbutrin every 2 minutes. I figured there would be less chance of my stomach rejecting them if I paced myself.
After a total of 5, I realized that taking this many “uppers” would cause quite a bit of pain while they did the job I had put them to, and keep me awake for the experience. I didn’t want to hurt myself, I just wanted to die.
The Nyquil in the bedroom seemed a good solution so I got up, walked down the hall, grabbed the three quarters full bottle of Nyquil off the dresser, sat on the bed, and began to drink. I knew there would be some time needed for it to take effect so I set my cell phone alarm to go off in 15 minutes, crossed my legs, closed my eyes, and waited.
The alarm went off and I resumed my dutiful swallowing of Wellbutrin at 2 minute intervals. But things got very fuzzy very fast.
If you’ve ever awoke from an extended night of excessive drinking and found yourself with many pieces of the previous night missing then you have an idea of what the next dozen or so hours was like for me.
Here’s most of what happened as recalled from my fuzzy, and certainly damaged, memory banks.
The Wellbutrin and Nyquil went into battle, each one making fierce advances followed by hasty retreats.
During the first 2 hours or so Nyquil would render me unconscious, which is what I’d hoped for. Then suddenly Wellbutrin would mount a counter attack and wake me up.
Nyquil was always at an advantage, though, so I was awake, but severely impaired in judgment, forming complete thoughts, and motor skills.
The result was a series of angry and incoherent telephone calls to my wife and parents during the wakeful periods provided by Wellbutrin. Somewhere in this series of calls I spilled the beans about what I was doing and my parents called in the Cavalry. My wife was also somehow able to convince me to unlock the door.
The last call I remember was from the Lompoc police department. At this point I was going down for the count and I hung up with a quick, “I’m going back to sleep now”, and I was out.
A smack on the leg and my eyes were open. Five officers were crowded in my small living room. Two were padding me down, one was evaluating the object clenched in my hand (my cell phone), and one stood directly across from me, tazer drawn and pointed directly at me.
Fortunately limp noodles pose no threat so the trigger wasn’t pulled and handcuffs stayed on utility belts.
I dozed. Another slap on the leg and I was faced with a barrage of questions form the paramedics that had arrived. There’s no way they got accurate answers.
Finally, with one paramedic at each arm, I was shuffled to the gurney waiting just outside the front door. It was comfortable and I wen to sleep.
Then I was inside the ambulance. The paramedics kept asking questions, I couldn’t figure it out. I vaguely recall my mother’s face disappearing behind the closing ambulance doors.
The move from the gurney to the emergency room bed was quite interesting. I remember the nurse I was standing next to saying, “I told you so”, as I watched myself roll, instead of slide, from one bed to another and fall comfortably asleep on my stomach.
My eyes opened to another nurse standing over me asking that I lay on my back. I did, it was comfortable, and I fell asleep again.
The questions again. This time it was the ER doctor. I remember his concern about my liver because of the hi Tylenol content in Nyquil and needing to contact poison control to assess the risks of my Wellbutrin overdose.
A nurse wakes me up, and the shit hits the fan. She has a tube of liquid charcoal and a blue bent tube with ridges like you see on the bendable part of a flexistraw. I knew what was coming would be bad, but couldn’t have imagined the magnitude of pain and horror the reality of it had to offer.
She shoved the blue straw from hell in my left nostril and began to maneuver it into my throat. The pain was excruciating, wouldn’t stop, and I let her know. She pushed on and tried to administer the charcoal.
Gagging, spitting, vomiting and an arched back a trained gymnast would have difficulty attaining convinced here this approach wasn’t going to work.
She decided the right nostril might be more successful.
At least this time the pain was not as severe, and only lasted briefly. But the shear discomfort was unbearable.
I watched my throat convulse and wrap it’s pink sponginess around the blue devil tube, gripping it mercilessly, forcing the black goo into my mouth where it was gagged and sputtered on me, the bed and the nurse.
She disappeared and returned shortly with a new white tube of liquid charcoal and a Styrofoam cup. Having battled the blue nostril demon and two third party views of my experience under my belt, I was surprisingly aware and able to quickly drink the charcoal without incident.
Then I laid down again, and the drugs I ingested, combined with the drugs being pumped into my veins, really started to go to work.
I couldn’t keep my eyes open but am aware several live discussion where I am sure my candor was not appreciated.
I also found my limbs being pressed by hard heavy objects that didn’t exist and my bed in a perpetual adjustment of lifting and lowering my knees and head simultaneously despite it’s mechanical incapability to do so.
Finally the word came in that Wellbutrin overdoses have a significant risk of major seizures and would need to spend the evening in ICU.
The rest of the night, and early morning of Saturday was a roller coaster ride of odd physical sensations and alternating states of barely sleeping and semi-conscious wakefulness. Then finally deep sleep consumed me.
I woke at 8 that morning, overwhelmed with feeling, and I cried. One clue to the significance of this is I hadn’t even felt the urge to cry, let alone shed a tear, in over a decade. A decade filled with many events of trauma and emotional strife with not even the slightest urge to push salty liquid from my eyes.
In a very real sense I killed myself that Friday, 2 weeks and 1 day ago, and a different person woke up in that ICU bed Saturday, two weeks ago.
Unless you’ve been through this experience you will never fully grasp what I am saying and feeling. Words are not adequate in describing this event.
I will be do my best, though, as I think the end result can be attained without the risk and pain involved with suicide.
Here you will find the documentation of my transformation. It will need some background which I will share in the days and weeks ahead, including what happened to “My Life Part 2″.
Simultaneously I will share the insights, inspirations, tools and philosophies I use to clean up the catastrophic mess my predecessor left behind and build a life of joy and devotion to my wife and son.
I sincerely hope you find some light in the words to come that will help you feel more joy and sanctification in your life.
Tags: suicide, depression, wellbutrin, overdose