I would like to describe the encounter that I had at a hospital day treatment center in 1973. It was an experience with a medication overdose.

In 1968, I had a total breakdown which resulted in a sudden incarceration in a state mental hospital. Five years later, I was in Buffalo to find a job. I was living at the YWCA. I attended a day care program at a day care center where I received routine group occupational and recreational therapy. In reality, it was terribly frightening, as I suffered "mental pain," a pain unrelieved by medication or counseling. My very thoughts were painful. I went through a time when I could think of only two words over and over: NOW THEN. NOW THEN. NOW THEN.

I accumulated pills and hoarded them in my room at the YWCA. In my possession were 350 pain pills, tranquilizers, and other prescription drugs. Every night I stared at my pills and cried from frustration. My life was lonely enough to do something drastic to get attention.

One day I timidly asked for help with suicidal ideas and I was referred to special counseling. The counselor first asked for my name and address so that he could look for my name in the obituaries. He said that he would laugh if he saw my name since I had ended a perfectly good life. I remember jumping up and running from the office and flushing all of the pills down the toilet.

When I told my doctor what I had done, he gave me a new bottle of Thorazine. Once again, I began to build up a large pill supply. More depressed than ever, I began to stay in my room all day and all night. I became very angry and confused.

One day, I returned to day care. My mental pain was so great that I swallowed sixty Thorazine pills. I waved the bottle around, yelling "I’M FREE!" A policeman appeared and steered me into the emergency room. A large tube was forced down my nose and into my throat. I was conscious of much pain. I could not breathe. Afterward, I curled up and tried to rest and cry. I vomited and became incontinent.

Sobered, I felt sick and depressed. There was no awakening into heaven. Soon, I was forced to get up and continue my day care treatment. It was more difficult now living with the awful reality of suicide and the fact that it failed to solve any of my problems.

Today, I am writing to encourage despairing patients to persevere. There may be a rainbow after the thunderstorm. For me, it has been a long road, with therapy, medication, and self-help. I am now working full-time in civil service, writing as an advocate and playing the piano with my group at a local nursing home.

This is my story. LOOK FOR THE RAINBOW.