Hello, r/confession.
A background about me; 23 year old girl who just started at university in August. I had to move another state over to go to this school. All throughout elementary/middle/high school I never thought I was good enough for college, so I never considered it. Since high school graduation in 2012, I've worked at dozens of different jobs and I whole heartedly hated them all. Retail, sales, every aspect of food service (hostess, bussing, serving, line cooking), healthcare, marketing, babysitting, dog washing, I even did cam girl work for a while. I know I'm forgetting a lot of things, but I can't remember them all now. But trust me, it was a lot, and I hated all of it.
I attribute my failures in the work place to my life long struggle with anxiety and depression. Last year I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, which explained a LOT of my awful behavior as a human being. Since getting that diagnoses I have come a long way in how I deal with my symptoms. I try to be easy to be with and easy to love, because I know I have the capacity to be a truly ugly person within, and I don't want to keep letting it leak out and poison the people around me. But regardless of what I do to manage my symptoms, I still have a lot of anxiety, intense rapid mood swings, and depression.
I had been using drugs like klonopin (spelling?) and eventually xanax all throughout my teens to cope with anxiety attacks. Xanax was amazing for me. It would only take just minutes before my anxiety would melt away. It changed my life, it was my "miracle drug." I didn't abuse it at all for a long time, I cherished it so I only used it when I truly needed it when I was losing to the relentless torrent of anxiety. But what was once my solace became a fully blown addiction. I was in denial about it for so long I can't even say when exactly it started. I went from taking the smallest dose possible maybe 5 times a week, to taking 10 or more bars of xanax every day. I OD'd three times before I was finally able to see my problem for what it was. Third time's the charm, literally.
Sorry, I feel like this is already a lot to take in. I just need to get this out there because I feel like an animal with a limb stuck in a trap. Thanks for bearing with me, I hope you can keep reading.
In late 2015 I overdosed for the third time. I don't remember doing it, but I took 50 bars of xanax after work. I read that even in high doses xanax can't kill you unless you mix it with alcohol or other drugs. I don't know how many days it took to come out of it. I slept in my room for almost a week, if I was getting up and eating/bathing/using the bathroom, I have no memory of any of it. But the day I finally felt the fog dissipate, of course the first thing I thought of was "shit, I need my xanax." I found the bottle and was mortified that it was empty. I cried so hard. For a really long time. I was so hurt that it was all gone, and that it was my fault. I sent out emails to my doctor in desperation, begging for another prescription. I think I told him my dog ate my pills.
Well, my doctor didn't believe me when I said something about my dog eating my xanax. He told me I had to just wait until next month if I wanted more. It was then that I had to stare the issue in the face, and I admitted I had a problem. I spent weeks in bed, sobbing day and night, feeling like my best friend had died. I was grieving over this drug and the idea that I wasn't allowed to have it anymore. To me it felt no different than when a close family member dies.
So almost all of 2016 was spent trying to self improve. Became vegan, broke up with my boyfriend, dropped toxic friends and really tried to figure it out. The first 6 months was hell, but it got easier.
Fast forward to this year, I finally applied to college. And I got in. I moved to a new state in August and started class a week later. The first few weeks were amazing. Started losing more weight, made a bunch of friends and made good grades. It was amazing, I have never been so healthy and functional in my adult life. But...something in me snapped. I started skipping class because of anxiety. I could no longer look in the mirror. Doing so would send me on this downward spiral of frustration and self hatred. I started randomly crying all the time. Friends would knock on my dorm door and I would just pretend to not be there because I was terrified of everyone. I felt so ugly and worthless. My friends are beautiful, and I felt like a troll they took pity on by being my friend.
Then it happened. I don't have access to xanax, but there are drugs you can get at the store. I started abusing benadryl. Fucking benadryl. I was taking 6-10 pills twice a day. I love how the come up feels, it feels like excitement bubbling in my chest. I like the couch lock, I like playing computer games while I'm on it, and I like how it makes me want to talk to people. I become focused and inspired, in a way.
I kept skipping class and staying in to dose up. The only time I'd go out was in the middle of the night so I could stock up on snacks and more allergy pills. One day I did go to class and didn't make it the whole day, instead I ran to my dorm during lunch. Wrote out this really long email to my teacher expressing how hopeless it all feels, how I hated my peers, that I was never going to be good enough to function in society, ect. The breakdown had begun. Completely stopped going to class after that. I started taking higher doses of benadryl and pretended to leave the state for a few days so faculty wouldn't send security to my room anymore.
On Monday of last week when everyone was in class, I felt low. It felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest, like how it feels when you break up with someone you really liked. I was so fucking tired of feeling only anxiety or sadness. I wanted to feel literally anything else, even if it was bad. I was okay with feeling a different kind of negativity because it was different than the awful shit I was feeling. So, in a fit of anxiety I took 30 tablets. I wanted to make my heart stop. When I started feeling weird from them, I took more. I finished off the bottle.
I wanted to die so fucking bad last Monday. For days I had felt like it would be an act of compassion if someone had just shot me in the head. It felt like that was the only true liberation from this Hell inside of me.
I got really sick. I threw up a few times. Saw spiders in my refrigerator, and was sure my cat couldn't see me anymore. When he looked at me it was like he was looking through me. That scared me so fucking much. But the whole time the thought of "this is what you wanted, this is all it will ever be." Wouldn't stop playing in my head. I watched countless murder and suicide videos. I cried and looked at these people, wishing I was in their place. I was in upheaval. I tried so hard to just imagine what it would feel like to be shot. I thought if I focused on it hard enough, I would be killed somehow. I wanted it to happen to me and was frustrated that innocent people were dying when there are people like me who want to die. I was wishing I could take their places and they could take mine. They deserved the privilege of going to a university and to build a good future for themselves. I hated seeing them die, but I was envious at the same time. After that happened, I spoke with a lady in student life. She had been trying to correspond with me for weeks about what was going on, so I finally caved and had a meeting with her. I told her everything, how badly I want to die because my anxiety always comes back, how ugly I feel, how I tried to OD but failed, which was just another example of my ability to fail at life, all of it. She really listened to me. I told her about how talking didn't feel real anymore, like I'm in a simulation and talking is the currency that gets me by while I'm participating in it. I felt completely detached from people and my surroundings if I'm not in a panic about something.
This woman was really compassionate about everything. She shared a lot of stories about her own hardships in life. And I listened. I couldn't feel anything, but I knew if I could feel something, it would be something like empathy. She really seemed to understand what I'm going through. She made sure I could take the month off and go back to school in November, so long as I drive home and tell my family what was happening.
I told my parent (no type-o's, I have a relationship with only one parent) and two siblings what was happening. I broke down and told them everything. They were surprised because I was doing so well at first. I apologized for potentially hurting them by hurting myself. And then on Sunday, I came home.
Since being here I have only gone one day without taking benadryl. I still feel miserable. I have come to the conclusion that even without drugs, I always break down every few months and I want to stop being alive. I can't hold down a job, but here I am trying to get a bachelor's degree. What a joke. Thinking about a lifetime of going through this several times a year, getting back up every time just to fall again, makes me feel exhausted. This isn't a life.
I recognize the pattern now. I'll do well in life for a few months, charm the pants off of people, make friends, make decent money...and then it all crashes down. I break down and spiral out of control. I can't keep living like this. Even when I get passed this benadryl thing, this pattern will continue. I'm so sick of feeling like two people stuck in one mind. People shouldn't live like this. I don't know how much longer I can. I think that by the age of 25 I will be dead. One day I'm going to be pushed over the edge for good. I feel like that day is approaching sooner than later.
Thank you for lasting this long, I'm done. I just needed to get this off my chest. Have a good night. I'm trying to have one.
Submitted October 12, 2017 at 06:45AM by StrawberryCatfood http://ift.tt/2kHXtON confession
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