I turned me off and then back on again, and it actually worked

Just before 8 AM is my new favorite time on a Saturday. Now that I realize I’m in the ER, in the hospital, alive enough to feel the sting of florescent light in my eyes, it doesn’t even matter that my exhausted body would’ve loved to sleep in. I call my mom and Mike, have conversations I barely remember later, then I let them go with the same heartfelt words of love.

“I’m gonna puke again, so I gotta let you go.”

I’m really glad those weren’t my last words.

Feel like you’re missing something? Let me catch you up…

It’s been one week since I tried to kill myself by Elizabeth Barone November 22, 2024

I’m glad we caught up. Back to Saturday morning…

My memory here on is spotty. My mom gets to me first, and she stays with me the entire rest of the morning while I empty myself. I used to hate throwing up, but this is a good feeling, cathartic in the burn, the poison exiting my system with each round.

I keep asking for water but they won’t give it to me. I’d just puke it right back up. An IV pumps fluids into my hand—not the same vein the EMT put it in, and the already gnarly bruises on my arms tell me there was some kind of trouble—but my mouth is beyond dry, my tongue fuzzy with the sour, acidic remains of vomit. I want to floss and brush my teeth.

I can barely sit up, though, and it’s time to puke again anyway.

Somewhere around noon, the vomiting stops. Someone brings me a soup that reminds me of chicken pot pie, and it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

Styrofoam cups clutter my tray as I guzzle ice water, and my mom stays with me the whole time. I keep apologizing to her, because this has to be a nightmare for her. Her constant presence is anchoring, the proof that I’m really actually alive in the lines on her face that weren’t there before I tried killing myself.

I doze in between all of it. They transport me from the ER trauma room to a recovery room upstairs. Mom never leaves my side.

The next time I’m awake, I’ve got a bit more energy, revitalized from the soup and catnaps. Everyone keeps asking me how I feel. My nurse—her name is also Liz—hugs me tight.

I’m moving through the stages of grief in rapid cycle, processing each feeling by just allowing it. I cry out the shock, the shaking in my hands stabilizing a bit. I can’t believe I did that to myself, that I tried to end my own life. It’s not at all what I wanted, and I’m floored that it happened. It truly felt like someone else was driving.

Two someones: trauma and amitriptyline.

I have to process quickly because for most of Saturday morning, I’m busy puking my guts out. Activated charcoal leaves zero room for anything else, just this moment of toxins flushing out of my system, back up the way they came in. It’s the ultimate undo button.

In the room, riding a fresh wave of shock and gratitude that I survived, I try to express how I’m feeling to my mom.

For the first time in a very long time, I am home.

For the longest time, I’d have these panic attacks where I’d sob to myself, “I want to go home.” After I swallowed an entire bottle of pills, I prayed to my angels Noni and Squirt, “Please take me home.” But where was home? Nowhere I could find. I stumbled and wandered, constantly seeking this home. Where? Certainly not in our dark, mold-ridden apartment. Possibly not even in Mike, my soulmate. When I first met him and he poured warmth and love into me, I thought, So this is healing. Except we kept learning the hard way that another person can’t be your everything. Home was definitely not in the three-family home that was my grandparents’ and my family’s safe haven for decades, now sold, mine only in memory.

Where was home?

In me, I’d realized upon waking that Saturday morning.

My angels brought me home, all right—home to myself.

In that moment Friday night when I realized I wanted to live, everything realigned—body, soul, and mind. I came home, my cold bones flowing with warmth and vitality.

“I turned me off and then back on again, and it actually worked,” I joked to my mother.

She gave me that mom look she’s been giving me my whole life, shook her head, and laughed.

Once I’m settled in my room, Mom leaves to meet my dad so they can get my car and things from the hotel. They’ll bring the car to Mike at his sister’s. While my parents take care of that, I fall asleep again.

author’s note

I guess I’m finally writing that memoir I’ve been threatening all these years.

Tonight I’m exhausted, in the best way. Mike and I have been slowly putting our life together. I’d say “back together,” but I think when we moved in here, we plunked down in a state of trauma, never really making this our home. Coming home from the hospital to no more mold, a vent in the bathroom, and a mini-split was the fresh start we needed to truly settle in. Last night we grabbed a few things from Dollar Tree, Target, and Stop & Shop, things like sponges, bathroom cleaner, and frozen ravioli for dinner. I can’t even express how good it feels to splurge on an Air Wick plug-in at Dollar Tree. Our home smells like a home instead of mold. It really is the little things in life.

This is directly thanks to Vanessa A., Vanessa D., and Lauren. I’m putting out the tip jar again so that if you want to, you can. It’s appreciated and not expected. In the meantime, I’m working on some stickers and other things you’ll be able to purchase to help support us.

You can also shop my direct ebooks and signed paperbacks.

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IT scene GIF by AudreyMeffray via Tenor