A Fallacy of Peace


 This journal entry contains sensitive reading material that may not be suitable to all readers.  Topics include Drug use, Self-Harm, Suicide, and some foul language. This entry will be broken into three parts, as this is not the easiest for me to let out in the open.  

– Part 1 of 3

On January 7th of this year (2022), I attempted to end my life. Fortunately for me and my family, I was unsuccessful. The series of events that resulted in me making an attempt on my life is rather complicated and fuzzy. Yet, I’ll try my best to be as open and candid as possible. I also want to state that this was my OWN experience, and in no way shape or form am I an expert regarding mental health. I’m a firm believer that simply talking about mental health will help those suffering in silence speak out and realize that you are NOT alone. I truly believe this all started with a little prescription pill named Adderall.

(Quick personal summary with ADD)

I was diagnosed with Inattentive Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD) when I was 18 years old, and began taking medication at 19. ADD is defined as an ongoing pattern of inattention and/or hyperactivity-impulsivity that interferes with functioning or development. Adderall is one of the few medications available for those who are living with ADD. 

When I began taking Adderall as prescribed, for the first time in my life I felt as if I had finally gained control of my mind.  I was able to focus on one thought at a time without being easily distracted.  A metaphor I often used when describing my thought process off of adderall was “Imagine being in a dark room with 50 television screens on a wall.  Each screen is displaying a different story and the volume is maxed out on each one.  Now you’re tasked with paying attention to all the screens, while trying to process your own thoughts at the same time”. I finally had a sense of what a “Normal” thought process felt like. 

January 7th, 2022:

(11 years on Adderall)

The first time I made an actual attempt on my life began on the night prior to the 7th on January 6th, 2022.  My work was extremely stressful in a profession not popular with most of society, My health was rebounding after bouts with chemotherapy and radiation yet, was drowning in medical bills.  I had completely isolated myself from friends and family and was completely alone due to my stubbornness. I found a sense of comfort living and being completely alone. I put one a fake face and persona for others to prevent questions being asked.  When I was asked how I was doing, I simply responded with “I’m doing fine”.  I would occasionally find the courage to ask for help, but would at times stop myself for the fear of being stigmatized as weak or judged. The biggest scare for me was asking for help, and being ostracized.  I drove myself crazy going back and forth on what others would think.  I had friends, but I had lost all my close friends.  Years of suffering and my own thoughts seperated a decade of friendships.  I pushed out my family by keeping my life private, thinking I was doing them a service by not allowing them to suffer with me.  I had always taken pride in thinking I was in control, but I wasn’t. I was prescribed the highest dose: 30mg tablets twice daily for nearly 8 years at this point. I had terrible tremors, I had developed a severe compulsion of picking my thumbnails down to the cuticle on both thumbs.  My confidence was non-existent, and I went out of my way to avoid anyone and everyone when I wasn’t working. The odd thing about all this was I was not aware of these changes (as hard as it seems).  

Okay, back to the 6th of January… I was living in Downtown Tucson, hoping it would force me to be social and perhaps go out more.  A friend from high school had invited me to a dinner just down the street, so I accepted.  The night went great, and as much as I can remember I had a fun time.  

I woke up at approximately 8:00 PM on January 7th on the floor of my kitchen surrounded by half empty prescription bottles, pills on the floor, vomit, holes in the walls, doors ripped from the hinges, a bruised and bloody hand, and a nearly shattered phone.  Completely disoriented, I gathered myself and attempted to gain a sense of what had happened.  I plugged my phone in to charge and was sickened to realize I had called, text, and left angry voicemails to a majority of my contacts. I don’t know what I had said, who I spoke to. I had zero recollection and was full of shame.  I had multiple missed calls and text asking if I was okay, some threatening to call for a wellness check.  Embarrassed and still extremely foggy, I made the mistake of deleting every message and incoming/outgoing call thinking it would go away if I ignored it, and pretended it didn’t happen. I had taken a handful of sleeping pills, and other medicines according to a suicide note I found sticking to my fridge door…Part 2 is available now below.

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