My Turning Point

By , darien, CT
When I was 4 years old my parents got divorced. My mom- crazy wealthy alcoholic attorney. As soon as my dad left he became abusive. Just within the past couple years the flashbacks of this started. The throwing into walls, smacking my back until the wind was knocked out of my little lungs. Within a year he married an awesome chick who I considered my second mom so I decided to live with them despite getting the s*** beaten out of me at age 5. When I was 7 or 8 my mom got in a drunk driving accident which she should be in jail for, good lawyers don’t go to jail so of course she’s off the hook. Under these circumstances she also had to start AA, like many, she relapsed. She’s been sober for 7 or 8 years now and I’m proud to say that. In the 4th grade, I started cutting. No reason just the typical kid dealing with divorced parents I suppose. My stepmom got breast cancer and had to stop drinking and smoking, she asked my dad to but he wouldn’t. He also could not support her financially, he even stopped paying child support and started counting the days I slept over just so he could throw me back on my mother. My Dad and stepmom got divorced. I still talked to her after the divorce but she betrayed me by telling my therapist things like I was going to kill myself and NEEDED to be put on meds. This started the downward spiral of fepression and failed medications. My mom tried to file restraining orders against her, I’m not allowed to talk to her. My dad is verbally abusive now, I refuse to stay with him. My mom has a second life in fl with her bf where she is more than half the week leaving me home alone or throwing me onto my abusive alcoholic father. She’s a huge pothead and loves to deny it. The only time I can communicate with her in a civil manner is when she’s high so I decided to go to boarding school. That worked for a few months until… December 6th, 2011 started out like any normal day and unfortunately it was not. The night before was an interesting one…I had recurring thoughts of how things would go if I threw myself down a flight of stairs. Typically this is a sign that you need to get away for a bit…as always I pushed through. Perseverance is definitely one of my under-appreciated qualities. ANYWAYS December 6th I rolled out of bed as always running incredibly late despite my sleep-in. My appearance never really mattered to me…I threw on some eyeliner and mascara and the nearest (probably dirty) dress that was draped over the end of my bed. I grabbed a Starbuck’s vanilla frappucino from my fridge, stepped into my uggs and ran out the door to the nurse for my antidepressants. It was incredibly overcast outside and I knew it wasn’t gonna be my day. We started out with F period and I knew everyone would be late so I took a few deep breaths after the nurse’s office and walked casually over to my class. A flight of stairs. The thoughts begin again. What would happen if I “accidently” fell down the stairs to the classroom and broke my leg? Well I would make a fool of myself and flash my class. Now was not the time for my negative thoughts, I had been doing so well not cutting or anything. I got through English class with a few laughs as usual but could not wait for my free. Blahhh, Chemistry next. I was on a mission to get to class and did so with a stern face and no questions but a few looks. The dreadful class got me thinking again. Throwing myself down the stairs wouldn’t do anything…what if I had a butcher’s knife right now… what would I do with it? Chop off my hands. These violent thoughts toward myself were definitely unexpected, I had no idea where they were coming from or why I was thinking them but they just kept coming. I thought about my room and all the potentially hazardous items in it. My medicine drawer. Advil, ibuprofen, Benadryl, sleeping pills, razors….so many options. As hard as it is for people to understand… I DIDN’T WANT TO KILL MYSELF or even hurt myself!!!! Well I thought and I thought and I was stressed and jittery sitting trying to figure out how balancing equations would come in handy in my future especially when I couldn’t see a future for myself. Fighting back tears I chose ibuprofen. Least dangerous. I played out in my head what I was going to do. F*** my next class I was gonna get out. How you might ask? Well I’d take a ton of meds then turn myself in. Yep that’s a good idea…. NOT. Class was over 10 minutes early and I could not wait to rush to my room. My best friend said “You don’t look so good…are you ok?” I responded “I’m not okay at all.” Without another word I stormed out of class and headed to my room. Raced for the drawer and pulled out the Costco bottle of ibuprofen. Poured some in my hand and counted….17. Well that’s a shitty number! Added 3 more and with 3 gulps from the old water bottle nearby I had “attempted suicide”. With my soaking wet hair from the rain and tears cleaning off my eye makeup my next mission began. Nobody was out of class yet (thank god, I was a mess). I ran up the stairs of the main building and went straight to the school counselor’s office. Door closed….kind of unusual. I banged a couple times and got a “hold on a sec!!!” I placed my distressed self on the bench next to her office and my right leg started shaking. Soon enough she opened her door and said “sweetie, what’s wrong?” “I TOOK 20 IBUPROFEN” I sobbed. Ok she says. She picked up her phone and called the nurse. By then I was laying on her couch crying uncontrollably. I’m so stupid…what have I done was all I could think. Before I fully contemplated what was going to happen next I was in the car with the school counselor on the way to the ER. She had to leave me to find a parking space and I was sitting in the front office of the ER talking to the workers. “Ma’am what’s your social security number again?” “I DON’T F***ING KNOW!” I was a bit snarky…. To make the situation better my mom was in Australia. To explain to the ER staff that my mom was in Australia and I don’t want them contacting my dad put me in an awkward situation. They couldn’t admit me. I told my sister what happened and she told my dad…f***ing FANTASTIC. Eventually my mom sent an email or something and I got in…woohoo. No eating charcoal or stomach pumping. My liver may be incredibly f***ed up now, same with the lining of my stomach but I was totally fine like I KNEW I would be. I had to be interviewed by a mental health advisor named “Fran” that alone made things better….except Fran only had bad news to bring. At the time I did not realize what I was doing signing the paper he gave me. I had signed myself off to a psych ward. Within an hour an ambulance was taking me to the insane asylum. Most miserable week of my life. My sister had to fly down from Boston, my mom and sister from Australia. For a week my rights and even some privileges were taken away. No knives, even plastic, no straws (wtf?!) 5 pieces of makeup max, to be done within 5 minutes at nurses station in fun house mirror, hairbrushes and deodorant allowed once a day in the morning, locked bathroom, no shoes, no strings on clothing, no phone or any technology for that matter, no writing utensils or erasers without supervision, no swearing, no telling people why you got there or how f***ed up your life is, no sitting on the same couch as a boy, no flirting, no earrings or any jewelry. The rules were a tad bit ridiculous to say the least. The message came across to my family and school that I was a suicidal disaster. After “much” (no f***ing consideration at all) thought, the school told my mom if I didn’t withdraw they would kick me out. So here I am, locked up in the insane asylum, being told that I’m kicked out of school “on medical leave” until I successfully complete residential rehab. As if I didn’t want to kill myself already….This caused another breakdown. With that overwhelming news they told me I wasn’t going to be allowed to talk to my friends from school….at all…not even a goodbye… wouldn’t be allowed on campus, they’d ship my s*** to me. I screamed in the face of my mother and school counselor…I exploded into the hallways of the ward not being able to breathe and had to be caught by one of the nurses. She dragged me to a padded room as I explained the situation. My psychiatrist saw it fit that I stay another night in the crazy house….the place full of hardcore drug addicts and pregnant bisexual abusive teens. No vacation let me tell you. So now I’m here…my phone turned off by my mother, school-less, friendless, ready to be thrown into a rehab psych ward again by my fam for Christmas. Colleges will love to see this on my application…Never have I felt to abandoned, unwanted, and a huge disappointment in the eyes of my family. I’m sure to be sent off to a “therapeutic boarding school” IF they consider me stabile enough.





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