Beware the Ides of March

I have to admit, I am a sucker for Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, A Midsummer Night's Dream....and of course, Julius Ceaser. If you will remember, the soothsayer warned Ceaser of the Ides of March. And this was the day that his own men, even his friend Brutus, stabbed him to death. I had no idea that the Ides of March held a foreboding for the Princess as well.

On the Ides of March, I woke up as usually, even though I was off work for the week. I did not pay heed to the date; I was focused on the task at hand. I had thought it through, planned it well, and was dispassionately committed to following it to the letter. So I took the dozen of so bottles of current and old medications: Geodon, Abilify, Serquel, Klonopin, Ambien, Lithium, Lamictal.....tossed them in a Wal Mart bag, told my child I was going to run some errands, and left about 8:00 a.m.

You have to understand, this decision wasn't made lightly. In short, I was worth more dead than alive. A failure as a wife, a failure as a mother, and a failures in my career, it made more sense for me to give what I had left. I was off work for a week. The proceedings, the funeral, all could be neatly taken care of, and life would go on. I wasn't pitying myself; that was over. My greatest pity was for those who still had to endure me. I felt nothing. I knew those who loved me would mourn; those who did not love me would continue as normal. But it wouldn't matter because I would not be there to see it, to hear it, to sense it everywhere I turned.

At about 3:30 my spouse found me at the hospital. I knew he was hurting. I couldn't connect. All I knew was that I would have to continue living. And I was angry. More angry than I could ever remember being. Ever. I was also afraid. I don't remember a lot about that day. I remember feeling dead inside, I remember the guard posted outside my room so that I wouldn't try to leave, and I remember being wheeled to place where I would spend the next....who knows.

At my first meal, I was accidentally given real silverwear. I don't think I have ever seen a nurse move so quickly. When my family member brought me some clothes, they were first inspected for buttons, zippers, and drawstrings. My toothbrush, comb, and small bottle of baby shampoo was pocked up except for shower time. Each day the beds were checked to make sure no one snuck out a plastic fork or knife. Medicine was given in a little plastic cup and blood was drawn each morning. There was group therapy, individual doctor visits, and lots of dead time. It was the longest four days of my life. But by the end I believed again that living was preferable to dying.

It is not uncommon for a person with bipolar disorder to attempt or succeed at suicide. In fact, bipolar disorder carries the greatest risk. But even with BP, a trigger or triggers are required before the trip over the edge is taken. I had many triggers. Some are gone, some I will soon leave behind. But the triggers for living are greater and more important. So I will live.