I Didn't Die

A story of unrequited love

Trigger warning: ⚠️ This piece contains themes of suicide, alcohol abuse, and struggles with mental health.

If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of suicide please reach out for help. Here are some resources.

Dial 988 from any phone

NAMI.org/Help

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As I sat on the edge of the natural swimming pool, situated on the edge of the Sipsey Wilderness, watching my 5-year-old son Arlo kick his legs in the cool water - 9 years ago yesterday - I thought to myself, “No one will ever have so much power over me again. No one will ever take me away from this.”

I could have lost him. Arlo. But I didn’t. I could have lost my life. I didn’t.

I don’t know how many more of the Xanax I would have needed to take in order for me to not be here anymore, and I guess I never would have. My family would have known. That number would have probably hung over their heads…over my precious Arlo’s head, for the rest of their lives.

And mine would have been over. But it wasn’t.

The day after I walked out of the psychiatric ward on May 7th, 2017, my mom drove me straight to pick up my son. The next day, we got in the car and drove to the wilderness for some healing.

He had been staying with his father. All he knew was that I had a reaction to medication. Which technically was true.

I had only just been prescribed the benzo after I told my doctor I wasn’t sleeping and I was depressed. He prescribed me the Xanax and welbutrin and sent me on my merry way. I wasn’t telling him I was drinking almost a bottle of wine a night and crying myself to sleep.

The night before, my ex and I had “gotten back together”. This was after a few months of him stringing me along and toying with my soul and emotions, promising me things that would never come true. I had confessed to him that I hadn’t been doing so well mentally and that I had even had one suicidal thought, which I had never had before in my life. I told him that I had imagined me driving my car off the side of the road. I immediately pushed it away as thoughts of my beautiful son filled my mind’s eye.

But it had come, nonetheless. I told him that when he had told me we would never be together again, I slept with a few people over a matter of only a couple of weeks. I was manic. I was drinking too much. I told him I was raped by a cop on a date. He pretended like it was no big deal, he fucked me and the next morning I left his house while he was still asleep and headed to work. The only thing he asked me to do, was cut off a friend that I had made during this manic period. Someone I had met on Tinder, but that turned out to be someone I really cared about. I had told him I was going to get back together with my ex and he was supportive. My ex told me he didn’t want me to talk to him. So when I left his house I texted him and told him I couldn’t talk to him anymore.

Anything for love.

My doctor’s appointment was that afternoon and I left at lunch. When I filled my prescription, I took one Xanax and headed back into work. I had only taken one a decade earlier on a dare from my drug addicted ex-husband. I remember I slept for 24 hours.

This one was the lowest dose, and I assumed correctly, that with the amount of alcohol I had been drinking, it wouldn’t knock me out like it had before. I was able to work, and I didn’t feel like I was going crazy. Plus, everything was going to be okay. My ex and I were back together. I called him after work to make plans before I even drove off in my car.

“I’m sorry…I just can’t be with you anymore...You fucked it all up…You’re fucking dirty slut…I am ashamed of you…

…You wouldn’t have been raped if you wouldn’t have been so careless.”

I took another Xanax. I couldn’t breath. I took a Welbutrin. I picked up two tall boys. I got home and took 2 more Xanax. I just wanted to sleep all night and all the next day. I didn’t want to be conscious, but I didn’t want to die. I started drinking.

No one told me the Welbutrin intensifies the alcohol too.

After 6 Xanax and one tallboy I was no longer Fiona. I started thinking crazy thoughts like, “Your son is better off without you (lie). How could you have fucked up such a wonderful thing (lie). You are worthless (lie).”

Lie after lie after lie filled my head. Thoughts that I would have never thought or allowed myself to think if I had not been on the condition I was in. I called my ex. I told him I was sorry for fucking things up. I don’t remember all that I said, but it was enough for him to call my dad. By the time my dad got to my house, I had taken around 15 Xanax. He busted down the door and shortly after the EMS arrived. I promised I would go with them after I used the bathroom. I ran and shut the door and locked it. The bottle of pills was in the bathroom and I took 5 more. I know I've got the number wrong because I'm pretty sure they said they think I took a total of 25. My dad said that night I was not his daughter. He said there was something else that had taken over and if I would have had a gun, I would have shot myself.

Despite seeing that for himself, his cousin told him that I was doing it for attention, and that is the story he went with whenever anyone asked. It was easier than to admit I was really going to kill myself.

I woke up on a rubber mattress. The doctor that I work for now was my psychiatrist at the time. He did determine that it was a reaction to the medication mixed with alcohol and that I was safe to go home a few days later.

I was in the hospital with 2 other social workers. This was a wakeup call for me.

A few months later, after I had gotten back on my feet, moved into a new apartment and was trying to just live my life, I got a call from my ex in the middle of the night when he was drunk. I refused to come over to fuck him, so he started telling me what a terrible mother I was and that I should have had my son taken away from me. I wasn’t healthy by any means at the time.

So, I started drinking that night. I drank 4 Ciders. What he said hurt and I wanted to feel numb. I stupidly got in my car and headed to his house. I made it there in one piece and back to my apartment before the morning light.

No, I did not fuck him.

But I did fuck up his new truck.

I promised I would never love again. My husband, Max, changed all that. And I sat on his front porch on our first date, smoking cigarettes, singing songs, and drinking tequila. I told him the whole story from him stringing me along, to the hospital stay, to the key sliding across both sides and the front and back of his pretty white pick-up truck.

“He deserved it”, Max said, confidently.

After a few months, I stopped drinking as much and I started exercising again. Since that May, I have kept my promise.

No one will ever have that much power over me.

My son needs his mother. I married a man who has been a wonderful father to him. I'm a happy person. And if Max and I end up not being together one day, I will still be worthy of love, of life.

Unrequited does not mean The End.

It never should.

It never will.