There Was No Light at the end of the tunnel

Following is the result of what I experienced when I overdosed on Seraquel and Klonopin (the meds I had been prescribed, at the time.)

**Important Note:  I am not the only person I know of who attempted suicide while taking Seraquel.  I know people who actually suceeded in their attempts, one just days after having had his dosage increased.  Psyche meds can be dangerous.  I would NEVER advise someone to take Seraquel**

From the inside of blackness, I gradually became aware of voices.  They were tinny, far-off-sounding voices; like the people using them were at the end of an extremely long and muffled tube.  I couldn’t recognize a single word in this moment; a moment that seemed to defiantly hover above my chest.  Like enchantingly mischievous and neutral faery-sprites, the moment and voices were gently fluttering just out of my grasp when, crack!  The blackness enshrouding me exploded with abrupt and violent force, taking with it the tube and its padded voices.  A shock of screeching sounds instantaneously sliced through my brain, as if my hearing had spontaneously become inhumanly sensitive.  The small and harmless faraway-voices grew at lightening speed and in beastly proportions, clawing at and piercing my tender ears.  My reflexes hadn’t even been triggered to respond to that assault when:  smack!  Colors!  Flashes!  Pulsating flashes of colors pounding:  RedBlack! Red again….screaming, howling and then:  the black silence returned.  (It was really bizarre that this happened, with the colors.  I had my tonsils removed when I was six.  The same thing happened to me while I was under the general anestesia {sp??}.  It was the same colors, too:  black and red.  It's so hard for me to describe this to people but, both times, it was somehow like I was being attacked by the colors of red and black.  When I woke up from the tonsil surgery, they'd tied my wrists and ankles to the bed because, apparently before I'd even left the operating table, I was screaming and fighting with the medical staff, actually injuring some of the nurses.  They'd tied me up to protect them and me.  With the overdose, when I awoke, right after the whole "color-episode," the blood I saw was on my own hands.  Daniel told me that I had been fighting the medical staff and ripped the tube out of my nose...the one they were trying to shove down my throat and esophogus to pump my stomach full of liquid charcoal.  Never have understood what it meant....)

The next time the blackness disappeared, sound and time failed to pause and do their faery-dance beforehand.  I was given no warning before my silent cocoon shattered.  First, there was nothing.  Not even a knowing of blackness.  Then, at once, there was everything.  It was as if, in one instant, every thing had been condensed onto the head of a pin and, without warning, it infinitely expanded at the time-bending speed of light.  Fwack!  There were hands in front of my face!  Bloody palms and fingers!  A sensation of panic!  Urgency!  There were loud voices, reprimands, crying and then:  nothing.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Daniel stood inside a trauma unit at the local Hospital.  Through the rush of people, machines and gadgets, he had been continuously nudged further and further away from me until he was left standing just inside the doorway of the steely room.  From across the space separating us and through the countless nurses and interns darting about, he gawked in stunned silence.  Every word and breath, every drop of his energy was caught in his throat; morbidly lodged just behind his Adam’s apple.  He’d practically been choking on it the entire time he’d been in this room………

He’d gotten a call from one of my neighbors, Mrs. Eapers, not even two hours prior.  She’d said she was concerned because my car was in the driveway but I wasn’t answering the door.  She was an elderly woman and obviously a bit shaken by a world that had become so violent in her lifetime.  She’d had his number from last summer when she’d had him do some carpentry work at her house so, she figured:  “Better to make the phone call and be safe rather than sorry.”  He agreed.  Immediately upon receiving her phone call, he was overwhelmed with an unsettling feeling in his stomach.  He’d learned (the hard way) not to ignore those feelings.  So, he wasted no time in calling the police and asking them to stop by my house to check on me.

And, thank God Daniel had learned to trust his instincts!  Officers from the local police department showed up at my door….the front door….the door Mrs. Eapers never used.  Her house was situated directly behind my house and, since I had a back door, Mrs. Eaper’s rarely walked around to the front of the house.  Besides, it wasn’t a door that I ever used myself so she really didn’t think of checking it.  But, when the officers arrived, they found that the front door was wide open.  And, since it was the middle of November, they thought it just might be cause for suspicion.  So they went in. 

Several hours later, I was peacefully lying in the Intensive Care Unit.  I’d spent the sum total of that time falling into and out of consciousness.  For me, though, time had ceased and the only things that existed were periods of nothingness and sudden, dramatic awareness.  So it was in what appeared to be the very next moment to me that my senses seemed to finally return to normal.  I gradually became aware of the gentle hum and purr of natural room-sounds massaging my ears.  I was soothed by the familiar, benevolent droning and relieved to sense that everything was “normal” again.  I felt my lips softly stretch into a drugged and childlike grin.

The psychiatrist from the ward "upstairs" came to talk to me.  But, only after Daniel had gently and lovingly explained to me that they might keep me overnight.....upstairs (clearly, "the psyche ward.")  After fifteen minutes of conversation with me, she determined that I didn't really intend to die and that I was not a danger to myself.  I was discharged within a couple hours of talking to her. 

MysticWriter MysticWriter
36-40, F
3 Responses Oct 30, 2006

One of the many reasons why I hate medication. My mother attempted suicide many times with medication... So sad.

Thank you for this post.

Did you actually flat line? Were you scared? How has this experience changed your life?

thats a very scary story, i dont really know what i could say, but well i just felt that your time, and effort in telling your story deserved praise so thankyou for sharing hunny.