I had a short, but severe, dysphoric manic episode and made a lame-ass suicide attempt. Trazadone: the drug of choice for those with suicidal ideations!
This was after what was a total black-out-wig-out-manic episode one of those nights. I called 911 and two very nice patrolmen came by and gave me a lift to the hospital. So I was told.
Once there my clothes were taken away, an IV was stuck into me, stomach pumped blah blah blah. And I continued on my manic way. I remember trying to get out of my room on several occasions only to be blocked by a nurse perched on one of those damned mobility scooters. On my last attempt at freedom I was advised if I tried again they’d restrain me.
Go figure. For some reason this sunk in and I was becoming relative lucid. I knocked that shit off right away and tried to bide my time, mind racing. By 4:00 a.m. I’d spoken with a psych nurse and she suggested I go back on my meds. Immediately. Was finally released at 4:30 a.m. and took a cab home.
Have been back on medication for 3 days now. Geodon, Lamactil, and Lexapro. Also alprazalom as needed, 2 BID seems to ward off the panic attacks.
Have not had a manic episode in YEARS. Of course I haven’t been off meds in years either.
My roomie spends a lot of time bitching about everyone he knows being on medication and how none of them really need it. I started to believe this. Dumbass me.
Speaking of the roomie I’m pretty sure he wants my crazy ass out of the house. I fucked up our friendship with my craziness over the past month or so and cannot imagine ever making things right again. This makes me so sad and angry at myself that it’s a constant drain and burden. Just as I must be on him.
The entire episode was indescribably frightening. I’ve never had anything remotely like this happen. That’s it. Thought I should write about it.
~Some Manic Girl in Reno