September 4, 2015, a date that is written in my head forever (and that of many others).
I have been in the care sector since I was a child and there was an upward trend in my behavior. Until I suddenly had an intake in 2010 at the outpatient clinic for eating disorders. From then on it has only gone downhill. I neatly finished the treatment, including pediatricians, dietitians, drinking foods and you name it. My mood considerably decreased that period. I was only in bed, did not go to school anymore and avoided social contact and places.Things were getting worse and I wanted to end my life for a while. My therapists of that time have put a stop to it.I was admitted to the closed ward, but was allowed to leave after 3 weeks. Then things went wrong. I took an overdose and ended up at the emergency room where my stomach was pumped out and I was immediately coupled to the drip. It was one of the worst moments that I made. I was in a lot of pain. In that period I actually started with auto-enchilment, which I expressed in cutting. Cut to express the pain that you feel inside outwards.
This was the beginning of a long period with many suicide attempts and (forced) recordings and HAP visits. In August '15 I was taken up for the umpteenth time with an IBS (in custody position and therefore not voluntarily) in the adult closed department. And there you are, as a teenager between all people who are at least 20/30 years older than you. It was getting worse and worse. I slept in the first couple of weeks with special clothing so that I could not do anything about it. Later I was allowed to go back to the department, but I was under medication so I was staring out a bit in front of me all day.
Until Friday afternoon, September 4, when I made the umpteenth attempt. I had a cardiac arrest for 10 minutes and was resuscitated, waiting for the ambulance. This is the attempt of which I have fallen into a coma. They kept me in a coma for 48 hours in the hope that the brain and organs could recover so quietly. And I can say that I had an angel on my shoulder. I was transferred from the Intensive Care to the PAAZ, where I started rehabilitating a bit. In the beginning I was there as a dead greenhouse plant. But I learned to sit, walk and talk again in week 2.5. I still have things that I have trouble with, such as eating with cutlery and writing.
And now, I'm still included on a closed group, but it's already so much better. I can walk, talk and actually function reasonably well again.
I am very happy with my parents, sister and girlfriends, who have supported me in all those years and have continued to do so during my deepest moments. I am also very grateful for that. I notice that I am moving forward, with small steps, but I am moving forward and secretly I am a little proud of that. I gradually start to get meaning again in things and in life. It's scary, but I'm willing to take on that challenge. I want to start living again, instead of surviving.