overdose

The roots of an abusive relationship.

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Through some parts of my youth I kept diaries.  Never entirely consistently, but consistently for periods of time, especially when I was in treatment or in hospital.  I’ve been thinking back to this time of year in 2001.  My first year with my abusive ex husband.  My first year in psychiatric care.  My first year engaging in severe self harm.  My first psychiatric admissions (aside from eating disorder treatment).  My first suicide attempts. It’s interesting how all these “firsts” coincided so neatly in time with my new relationship.  At the time I thought it was because memories of the abuse I survived as a teenager were triggered and surfaced when I became sexually active.   That was part of it.  But there was more to it than that.  There was subtle abuse in my relationship with my ex husband that started very early on.  The seeds of gaslighting and emotional abuse were being planted.

It started with showering me with affection and attention.  It started with making me feel special and loved, almost to the point of making me uncomfortable.  It started with planning for the life we’d have together, the kids we’d have, the marriage…within months of meeting me (I was 19!).  It started with gifts, cards, flowers, spending all our time together.  It started with gradually isolating me from my other friends and social outlets.

Then some lies started.  And the lies were repeated so often I believed them to be true.

These lies were focused around my mental health problems and their link to my feelings about his abusive  behaviours.   He would tell me that it was because of my PTSD that I was uncomfortable with something.  He would tell me that a “normal woman” would be okay with it.  He would make me feel guilty, tell me that he felt like there were three people in the relationship: me, him and X.  He made me feel like I was CHOOSING to have flashbacks, like I was CHOOSING to think about X rather than him.  Almost like X was someone I never quite got over, a lost lover, rather than an abuser who had traumatized me to the point I often had flashbacks during any type of intimacy.  Over time, the lies were repeated to the point that I felt crazy.  I felt like I was to blame for the problems with intimacy in our relationship.  We even sought out support from a sex therapist to talk about this.  I had blood tests and was checked to ensure my hormone levels were normal.  I was completely manipulated into believing that the issues in the relationship were entirely my fault.

Today, in 2017, I realize I like some types of sex just fine.  I just prefer consent to be a factor in that sex!  In other words, I like sex, but I don’t like sexual abuse!  It turns out, I’m not physically broken.  I have PTSD.  I have flashbacks, but with a safe, trusted and patient partner I can be okay.  But because of the lasting impacts of gaslighting, I struggle with saying no. I struggle with blaming myself for anything that might go wrong. I struggle with identifying and communicating what I want or enjoy.  And I still fall back into patterns of believing that I’m crazy.

When I left my ex husband, I mainly remembered and talked about the sexual abuse that happened in the last 5-6 years of our marriage.  These were the incidents I felt most comfortable labeling “sexual assault” and “rape.”  When asked, I couldn’t really describe when the sexual abuse started.  I couldn’t really remember the first time.  I couldn’t really say when things started to go wrong.

But reading back in my diary from 2001, the first year we were together, there are so many red flags.  I can hear my 20 year old self trying to convince herself that things were okay.  I can hear my 20 year old self trying to believe that she loved this man she barely knew. I can hear my 20 year old self trying to rationalize that things would be better with him when SHE was better, when SHE stopped cutting, when SHE stopping being so depressed.  I can hear her trying to convince herself it was the right choice, and I feel deeply sad for her.

June 8, 2001

“The evening went well until the car ride home.  Before getting in the car I was feeling panic starting. [He] tried to kiss me but I pulled away.  He got offended.  I tried to explain but he got angry and said he felt stifled like he couldn’t be spontaneous.  He said I only make love to him out of duty.  I got really upset and started crying and I couldn’t breathe. It was like a panic attack and I couldn’t stop hyperventilating. I just was so very scared.  I’m terrified of being with [him], but I do love him too.  It’s such a dilemma all the time. I feel like it would be easier for me to get better without the strong feelings of a relationship.  But on the other hand [he] is my support.  I don’t know.  It’s so tough right now.  I’m so scared of my life and everything in it”

Looking back on the things I wrote, I realize that I was barely more than a child myself. Just turned 20 years old.  I had just disclosed the abuse from my childhood, just started counseling.   I was talking about abuse I’d kept inside for 5 years.  I was in full PTSD crisis mode, complete with flashbacks, hyper vigilance, anxiety and nightmares.  I was on psychiatric medication cocktails for the first time.  I was self harming almost daily and had recently attempted suicide.

It was perfectly normal that I didn’t always want to be intimate with someone.

Perfectly normal.

Today, I choose to forgive my 20 year old self for not knowing this.  I choose to forgive her for not knowing that she was having normal coping reactions to trauma and that she was not crazy.  I choose to forgive her for being tricked into a situation where, instead of healing and support, she found gaslighting, confusion, entrapment and more sexual abuse.

I know I’ll wake up tomorrow, or the next day and feel confused again.  I’ll wonder if the abuse was my fault.  I’ll think that I’m exaggerating or that I’m making things up.  I’ll start to feel the thoughts creep in that I’m not normal.  I’ll start to wish that I had died all those years ago when I attempted suicide.  I’ll start to believe his lies again, because a long term emotionally abusive relationship includes an element of near brainwashing which can take years of healing, therapy, patience, self love and self forgiveness to recover from.

But just for today, I want 20 year old me to know that her reactions were normal.  That she was allowed to say no to that kiss for any reason.  She was especially allowed to say no to that kiss when she was triggered.  She had the right to say no without consequence, without anger, without bullying and blaming.  She had the right to have needs and preferences and anxieties.

It wasn’t her fault that he didn’t understand consent.

Cumbersome.

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“I have become cumbersome to this world…”  Seven Mary Three

Trigger warning

This song was playing on the radio in my boyfriend’s car.  We had parked outside the engineering building at the University of Western Ontario.  I waited in the car while he ran inside to hand in a late assignment.  It was about 3pm in June 2001.  I was deeply depressed and in the grips of side effects of benzos and SSRIs, toxic soup which turned my brain into an impulsive, self destructive, hopeless mess.  I felt like the song was a sign and a message to me that it was time to die.  we drove home and a few minutes later I was in the bathroom, taking my 3rd overdose.  I was serious this time and not messing around.

I remember sitting in my room, waiting to see what would happen.  I started feeling bad fairly quickly and this time I was fully aware of the entire experience.  My boyfriend drove me to the hospital and I remember during the drive realizing that an ambulance would have been more appropriate.

I remember sitting at the triage desk in the South Street ER, the nurse asking me questions: “How many pills did you take?”

Either my answer or my vital signs snapped everything into motion.  I remember her checking the E for Emergent on the triage form and I was taken immediately back into the department.  Things started to go downhill from there.  I was given activated charcoal to drink, this time I was fully awake and the taste and texture was horrific. I still have regular nightmares and flashbacks about this.  Even typing this I’m having flashbacks and feeling nauseous.  The nurses took blood samples and started an IV.  As we had found out on OD #2, I’m actually highly allergic to the antidote to the drug overdose.  This meant I was having a life threatening allergic reaction.

I remember my face getting hot and swollen.  I was receiving IV benedryl along with the antidote.  I was vomiting over and over, the charcoal wouldn’t stay inside me.  Eventually I was vomiting blood.  I was given IV gravol.

My sense of time was somewhat confused but at one point I remember them paging the internal medicine experts.  It was at this point I realized that I had F*#ed up.  I realized that I wasn’t going to die, clearly.  I felt like a failure at everything.  I couldn’t even get this right!  But at the same time I was petrified because I knew my body was not doing well.  My liver was having trouble processing the OD.  The specialist told me I needed the charcoal to absorb the drug and I would need the IV antidote for about 24 hours, I was being admitted to a medical floor.  He also told me if I ever did this again I would die from the allergic reaction to the antidote.

Shortly after the Dr  came back into my curtained area.  A tube was placed down my throat and into my stomach.  I was fully conscious and had no pain relief.  I could not longer speak.  My eyes were watering from the pain.  The nurse was supposed to come immediately to pour the charcoal directly into my stomach.  But for whatever reason she didn’t come and I was lying there unable to speak with a tube down my throat.  Finally the nurse came, poured the charcoal into me and then pulled out the tube.  I was gagging and crying.

Late that night I was taken upstairs to the 5th floor which was a cardiac monitoring floor. I needed a monitored bed because I had been admitted involuntarily on a Form 1 (72 hour psychiatric hold under the Mental Health Act).  I remember waking up, if I had even slept at all, and dragging my IV to the washroom to vomit black charcoal.  I could barely walk. I noticed that this part of the hospital was much fancier and the beds were much more comfortable than on the psych wards.  I remember at one point using the phone in the nursing station to speak to my parents.

In the morning breakfast came on a tray.  There was cream of wheat in a plastic bowl.  A few hours late the psychiatrists came to assess me.  I remember being angry and frustrated because they made me walk all the way down a long hallway to a meeting room to talk.  I could barely walk and it felt like an eternity.  I remember thinking they were punishing me on purpose, but maybe they just didn’t realize how terrible I felt.

I was moved to a bed on the 2nd floor, it was a general medical unit.  Since I was not in a monitored bed and not on the psych floor (locked ward) I was assigned a “sitter.”  Basically someone to sit in the room and watch me, presumably to ensure I did not harm myself again.  It was embarrassing and invasive.  This person just sat on a chair in my room.  If I went to the washroom they would stand outside the door and listen.

I remember the day being overwhelming and scary.  I was not grateful to be alive, I didn’t see it as a second chance.  I felt sick and I felt trapped.  I felt incompetent and alone.

Late that evening I was medically cleared, the IVs were removed.   I was moved to the 7th floor.  I was not allowed to leave the unit.  After the 72 hours passed my Form was extended to a Form 3 which allowed them to keep me for up to 7 days.  Dr. X was the one to sign the papers.  He informed me that things had gone too far and he would not release me from the hospital unless my parents came to collect me.  I had no choice but to agree.

Involuntary hospitalization feels like being imprisoned.  Your right to freedom of movement is removed.  You must stay on the psych unit and you can’t go outside.  Sometimes they will let you go outside supervised but only on hospital property.  Did I need to be involuntarily held at that time? Probably yes.  Would I have harmed myself again at home?  Probably yes.  In fact, I went on to continue harming myself for years after this admission and I would be held involuntarily again.  I couldn’t talk myself out of this one.

It’s very difficult to explain what is in the mind of a person who wants to die.  Sometimes it feels like a terrible emptiness.  Sometimes it feels like looking at the world through dark glasses.  Sometimes it feels like a crushing weight, when you feel like you are separate from all living things, a shadow of yourself.  Sometimes it is racing, impulsive thoughts of harm.  Other times it is absolute quiet.  I’d be lying if I said I don’t still have thoughts of dying.  They come and go, as they have since I was 17 years old.

Thoughts of suicide are a warning sign for me.  They are a giant red flag waving.  Stop! Your stress levels are too high.  You have too few spoons.  You have too many triggers.  You need to slow down and self care.   Suicide is a symptom of depression and PTSD.  Hopelessness is a symptom.  It’s not a sign of weakness and it is not a sign of being “crazy.”  It’s a symptom of depression in the same way sniffling and coughing are symptoms of a cold. Suicide and suicidal attempts can also be a side effect of many psych meds and this was certainly true in my own life.  This is an issue with many layers.  Ironically, suicidal thinking can be a way of coping and trying to survive desperate times.

I am a suicide survivor.

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