My mother claims that she came into my room to ‘tidy up my desk’ while I was out. Right. Because the first thing one does in tidying a desk is to pull open and rifle through the drawers. That’s how she came to find the box of escitalopram and sertraline I still had in my possession. And my desk is still as
messy neat as it was before I left for the day.
I was confronted by my mother as soon as I arrived home, when she came into my room, pulled open my drawer and enquired about the two boxes of medication I had. I tried to claim they were ‘left over’ from when I still took the aforementioned medications. Except she pointed out the date written on the dispensing label of my box of sertraline. 24 June 2011. Caught out. She confiscated the two boxes and asked for the script. I gave her the one for escitalopram, leaving the one for sertraline. She came back two minutes later realising, and asked for the sertraline script too. Caught out again.
I feel as though nobody understands how much more desperate and determined to OD that makes me. I’m left with no more antidepressants and no more scripts in my possession. Similar to some people needing their blade there as a safety blanket in case they have the urge to cut, I need those pills in case I have an urge to self harm by ODing. Yeah, I could OD on something like paracetamol, but then I’d have to go to hospital afterwards for treatment to prevent liver damage. With the SSRIs, I know I can OD without needing hospital treatment. I’ve done it a fair amount of times and recovered at home. I don’t want to self harm and end up in the Emergency Department, I want to self harm without; ending up on a hospital bed, my parents finding out, having a cannula stuck up my arm, adding another OD to my hospital records, being labelled as a ‘psych patient’ and undergoing an assessment by ED psychiatrists.
I’m lucky that my mother didn’t find the good stuff. The stuff that has a much more likely chance of killing me. The stuff I had the sense to hide a little better. The stuff that required some effort to obtain. The stuff I wouldn’t take unless I was really sure I wanted to go. But that’s my ‘suicide stuff.’ I’m still angry, embarrassed and upset that I had my ‘self harm stuff’ taken away from me.