It’s not a very complicated story. I went to the pub after therapy on Wednesday afternoon. At the bottom of the second double, I decided I’d kill myself. The decision was impulsive, but the urge had been hanging around for months.
I wanted to go somewhere I wouldn’t be found until it was too late. And to make the process less unpleasant, I added a bottle of Prosecco and a large bar of chocolate to my shopping for pills. I already had about 40mg Lorazepam in my coat pocket, so the extras were just to make sure.
I found a secluded spot in a cemetery. Surrounded by headstones on each side, nobody could see me there as the light faded. It felt like the right place.
I took all the pills. They made me retch, but still I kept swallowing more.
Then I sent messages to my mum, my sister, my wife, and J. Goodbyes to the people who matter most.
My wife got home and got scared when she found I wasn’t there. She kept calling but I wouldn’t pick up. I sent her a few texts and by this time was heavily intoxicated. They probably didn’t make much sense. She called the police when she realised I’d taken the pills. And kept me talking for long enough that I gave her my location and they reached me before I passed out.
I spent the night in hospital being detoxed from the drugs and alcohol. When the psychiatric liaison visited to assess me, his decision was that it was unsafe to discharge me. So I was transferred to a psychiatric hospital from there.
Now I feel encarcerated. This place is awful. It’s cold and heartless and I can’t go outdoors. There is literally nobody to talk to. The other patients are either totally withdrawn, psychotic or aggressive. There are constant verbal fights that trigger my anxiety. I have never hated anywhere so much. I feel so desperately alone. And trapped. The psychiatrist basically told me that although I am not sectioned, they will section me if I try to leave before they think I am fit to.
I feel like a prisoner. I miss my cosy home and my wife and my dog and just being able to wander. This is an absolute fucking nightmare. In fact, all night I kept dreaming of this horrible place and waking to the shock that it was all real. Again and again. Like some sort of mental torture. I kept thinking, when I open my eyes again I will be at home. And every time that didn’t happen I cried myself back to sleep until it happened again.