• cocodensmore

You can't kill yourself with Klonipin - Part I

September 22, 2022 Journal Entry


This is a hard one. But it’s been coming. I try to push it down. “Later later later I’ll write about it later,” I think. I’ve often said that inside my head, I realize now. Often. Every day. Every time I sit at the laptop. It has to come out. It’s festering. It’s painful. So here goes.


I don’t know what I was thinking that Saturday night. Well, yes, I do. I was thinking about Don. The following day was the first Don Day I hadn’t spent with Don in seven months. I was devastated. I was trying so hard not to put it on Don. Don is 44. I am 59. Don is a friend. There was a physical component. I hate FWB, so I don’t say FWB. But Don was a fun friend that I had sex with and unexpectedly he became a lover that I loved.


Poor Don. I know he feels a bit responsible. He doesn’t really understand it, though. He’s baffled I could feel the way I feel about him. It doesn’t scare him, I don’t think. At least not anymore. He knows I’d never hurt him.


I know he never felt the same about me. He is grateful for the role I had, still have in his life. And so am I. That’s the best part of it all. We made each other better.


He learned he could trust me, completely trust me. That was a hard one. I think it wasn’t really until after, when he’d met someone his own age, someone with whom he recognized he’d have that connection he’d never had before. Someone he was falling in love with, starting on that very first date. I smile. He’s so naïve. How could he not see he is golden?


“Do you shit talk yourself in front of Cassie? I sure hope you don’t shit talk yourself in front of Cassie,” I said the other day. “I hope you see you have much to offer.”


“I’m starting to. You and Cassie have made that easier for me,” he replied.


Starting to see. HA! I want to hold him and tell him how incredible he is. But that’s no more. I can tell him. I can say it. And I will. Over and over. Until he responds, “I know, Coco.” I certainly hope I’ll hear him say that one day.


I wish for him all the best and everything good in life. I mostly wish for him the experience of falling in love. Which is happening right now, as I lay these words down. I want him to feel.


It took me rather by surprise, how hard I was taking it, the fact it would never be the same between us. The friendship connection deepened overnight. He saw things for the first time, about me, about him, about what his life could be. He saw life could be different, better. He got hold of Hope.


I knew life was going to get more difficult. I was losing something which had become incredibly dear to me. I leaned on him. I counted on him. I believed everything would continue. I believed everything would keep getting better, our connection would deepen, that there were only good things ahead for us, us as a couple.


Wow. There I went and used that word. Couple. I never used that word, even in my mind. I’d just rested in it. An unspoken truth. It wasn’t until I faced down my impending loss that I realized that is what I’d felt, what I’d believed, what I’d assumed would go on and on. We were connected. He loved me, as a dear friend. I loved him, more than that. Much more than that. But he’d always love me as a friend, he'd always always be there. I saw no danger looming. It all took me quite by surprise.


It’s a good thing he’s so behind in reading my posts. He might not ever get to this one. And that is best. It’s better he doesn’t. He wouldn’t feel bad, I don’t think. Just confused. It’s all rather perplexing to him, that I feel this way, that I’m taking it so hard. He just doesn’t understand neurotypicals.


Plus, I often urged him to get out and date, to meet women, to find someone he might walk a spell with. I don’t know how many times I said, “We are not a couple!” Mostly, after those first few months, I was saying it to myself. I wanted to convince myself. After a while, I didn’t believe it at all. I sounded so insincere. How could he not notice I was not being authentic? Well, Don being his Asperger self, Don, didn’t notice. He is not able to read between the lines. I smile. The man is guileless.


Well shit. I didn’t think I’d be going on and on about “me and Don”. I’m just putting off putting to paper what I did. I don’t want to think of what I did. I don’t want to face the fact what I did was short-sighted and selfish and utterly foolish. I made a decision to self-harm. One which I regret. But perhaps not. No regrets. Only learning. Only progress. Only what is to come, not what lies behind.


I was at my laptop that Saturday night before the first Don Day I wouldn’t be with Don. Don would spend that day with Cassie. His new person. Whom we both knew was his Person.


I was crying.


My mother was sitting in her chair, looking at me, resenting me, hating me. She mimicked me, “Boooooo hooo hooo hooooo…..”


I flipped the table in front of me. My laptop and pens and paper and water glass and hand lotion were strewn across the living room. I reached down to the floor and set my laptop, MY LAPTOP, upright and closed the lid. This laptop is my lifeline. I didn’t break it. I was momentarily relieved. Then I stomped upstairs to my room.


My niece was in the next room, but I didn’t talk to her. I asked her later if she knew I was falling so far so fast. She didn’t. Probably because she’s young and doesn’t suffer mental illness. You don’t see something if you’ve never seen it before. It doesn’t register there is danger.


I had a pill box beside my bed. I grabbed it, turned out the lights, and settled into bed. I remember Tabitha, my black cat, was laying over my side. That’s how she slept. When I moved, she’d protest. But if I was still, she was still and she slept. I tried to be very still.


As I laid there, I started putting Klonipin under my tongue. First two, then three, then four, then six, then I stopped counting. I packed Klonipin under my tongue until my mouth filled with chalk. Probably 20 Klonipin? I melted Klonipin under my tongue and as it liquified, I swallowed. It took a long time to get all those Klonipin down, but not very long. I don’t know, maybe 10 minutes?


I kept checking myself to see how I felt. I felt at peace. I was surprised I felt at peace, but I was grateful. I smiled as I thought about how I might not wake up and how absolutely OK that would be. It was what I wanted. I just wanted to go to sleep and wake up somewhere else. Somewhere better. I drifted off.


At 2 am I woke. I was completely high. Out of my mind high. I wasn’t registering what was happening, where I was, what I was doing. After getting a sense of where I was and what I’d done, I was incredibly disappointed I had woken up. But that’s what always happens. You can’t kill yourself with Klonipin. I don’t know why I thought it would be different this time.


I went to the bathroom then back to bed. I was awake the next five hours. I devised a plan. I still had maybe 25 Klonipin left? In my mind, I plotted out a clear and compelling course of action. At 7 am, I got up and got dressed and drove to the dive bar in Rochester. It’s all very fuzzy because I was high on Klonipin. Very high. I was OK, though. I thought I was OK.


It all seemed very normal and logical. It was all upside down. Wrong was incredibly right. It was blatantly obvious what had to happen. I thought what I was doing was inevitable so why would I bother calling anyone? Asking for help? I didn’t need help. I needed to do this Klonipin thing. That’s all there was to it. It was just as normal and natural to think of doing it as it was to blow dry my hair. Brush my teeth. Taking the rest of the Klonipin was just what I needed to do next.


I had country fried steak. It was very good. I had two champagne splits. I had always laughed about that, having champagne in the dive bar in Rochester. I think I played some pull tabs, but I don’t really remember. I gave the bartender $40 to hold. In the lookback, I wonder why I did that. Maybe I wasn’t so sure of my plan after all.


“Keep this for me in case I need to take a cab home,” I said. “Do you need my name?”


“No,” she said. “I’m here. I’ll be here all day. I know who you are.”


That money is still there. I’m torn on whether to ask for it back. That makes me laugh. I probably won’t ask for it back. What do I say? Thanks for calling 911! I was an involuntary admit and jailed for 12 days! I should at least call and tell the bartender to keep it. But I don’t want to thank her with a tip for calling 911! Or do I?


I got up and gathered my things. She asked me where I was going.


“I’m going to go sit in my car,” I said. “I won’t drive, though.”


“What are you going to do?” she asked again.


“Probably just go sit in my car and take the rest of my Klonipin,” I said, laughing, assuming she wouldn’t even know what Klonipin was. Assuming she’d not be at all concerned.


It was a sunny day, warm but not hot. I moved my car to another part of the parking lot, under a shady tree. There was a breeze. I could hear it rushing through the trees. It was quite beautiful sitting in my car with the seat laid back, looking up through the green leaves, listening to them rustle.


I took the rest of the Klonipin. Then I fell asleep.


The bartender called 911.


Someone knocked on my window. But my window was down, right? I don’t remember. But it was a knock of some sort and there was a cop. There were maybe three cop cars? And then an ambulance.


“What are you doing?” the cop asked.


“Just taking a nap,” I said smiling up into his face. “I gave the bartender $40 for a cab. I’m not going to drive!” I said, as if it was the silliest thing in the world he thought I’d be so irresponsible!


“Get out of the car,” the cop said sternly. “Can you walk?”


“No, I can’t walk. I took quite a bit of Klonipin.”


I got out of the car, and they put me on a gurney and into the ambulance. I don’t remember much of that. I don’t remember anything until I’d been put in room and changed into a hospital gown. I sat on the end of the bed.


I’d been through this before. I knew nothing would come of it. I’d sleep for a few hours, maybe overnight. They’d bring in the crisis response team. Fucking idiots. I’d be nice, smile, explain I was just having a rough go of it. It wouldn’t be hard to convince them it was no big deal, what I’d done. I’m high functioning! I sound VERY SANE when I want to sound VERY SANE. Not to mention it wasn’t a suicide attempt! You can’t kill yourself with Klonipin!


They’d buy it. They’d have me sign a no harm contract. I’d be discharged. I’d get dressed, and security would walk me to my car. I’d laugh and smile and act happy because I’d beaten the system again. It was almost a game to me. I couldn’t take it seriously. They were such FOOLS!


I should be in a psych hospital!


But no, they always let me go. Always. Always. Always. Always. Over and over and over they’d just let me walk out, drive home. I don’t know how many times but a lot of times. Up until now.


The admitting doctor came into my room and crouched down in front of me where I was sitting on the end of the bed. She was below eye level; I was looking down into her face. She was beautiful.


“What do you want, Coco?” she asked.


“Does it matter? You won’t find me a bed. You never do. You’ll just let me sleep it off then you’ll let me go. You never find me a bed,” I said smugly.


“Oh, I will absolutely find you a bed!”


“Really?”


“Oh yes, I will absolutely find you a bed. I promise you I will.”


“I don’t believe you.”


“Believe me. I will find you a bed.”


I was relieved. They were going to find me a bed. I needed to be in the hospital. I knew that full well. And it was what I wanted. I would never have admitted that, but my actions spoke pretty clearly.


It didn’t matter, though. I’d been clear and honest before and I never got a bed. They’d always just let me go. I wasn’t going to get a bed this time, either. I was certain of it. The doctor could say whatever she wanted but I’d never get a bed. I was sad. I really needed a bed. But it had never mattered what I needed before. No psych bed for Coco. No room at the inn for Coco.


I slept.


“If you want to commit suicide why tell anyone? They'd ruin everything.” -Brian Spellman, If the mind fits, shrink it


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