Checking out

I’m not sure if you’ve ever wanted to kill yourself, but it’s not as dramatic as you might think.  One minute you simply want to die, as in cease to exist, and the next moment you actually have a plan. That feeling, that bereft, lonely empty hole that’s hollowed out your soul has actually taken shape into this faceless shape that has autonomy.  The shape has a plan.  The shape can act for you, plan for you. If you’re too tired, don’t worry about it.

That was me a few weeks ago.

I fed my shape all of the despair and pain and destructive thoughts; I let it grow and fill in the corners, the empty rooms inside myself.  My plan started forming simply enough.  I took my medication, and a voice whispered take more.  I knew what it meant…what it wanted.  Strangely enough, it didn’t frighten me.  Enough nudges and it seemed like a good idea.

So a few days later I was sitting in the parking lot at McDonald’s crying about how I was spending my final hours in a parking lot at McDonald’s (self-pity is such an unsavory emotion, but I had it in spades that night).  I stared at my phone wondering if I texted the crisis line, would they talk me out of it.  Mind you, I didn’t want to be talked out of it, but I simply wanted someone to try.  I was lonely as hell.  No one ever called me. There was no one to reach out to.  I think I just wanted to talk to someone before..everything.  So I texted the crisis line and told them what I was up to.

You could almost hear the counselor on the other end.  “Let me get someone to help you.”  As soon as she put me on hold I could imagine her yelling through the room “We’ve got a live one here!”  Yes, for now you do.  My mouth twitched.  She asked me if I had a plan.  I said yes, I’m going home and take a handful of Geodon (my anti-psychotic) and go to sleep.  She asked if I had access to the medication, and I said, I sure do.  Things were pretty basic.  She asked me about my family, etc.  I asked her if she was going to call the police. She said that she did not want to have to do that.  Ehh, then I started to regret things.  I wanted to have a nice chat with someone, not the cavalry called.  So I told her that since I was seeing my shrink on Thursday, I wouldn’t do anything until I had talked to her.  It was a Tuesday.  I was lying.

It satisfied her enough to let me go.

All was back on track until I got home and my two little nephews were there.  That kind of threw the whole plan to shit.  No way can I do something like that to them, I thought.  They’ll never understand.  Plan B was to continue suffering until Plan C, actually getting my shit together, takes shape.

Thursday arrives.  I walk into my psychiatrist’s office between rows of people and immediately feel my anxiety rise.  I don’t generally like waiting with people, or standing with them, or talking with them actually.  My anxiety can be paralyzing at times, although my depression has been worse than the former of late.  I take a seat (not my usual seat) on a couch in the far corner of the office where the children usually play, in a patch of milk-white sunlight bleeding through the blinds.  I sit there, my coat as a blanket, and cry through closed eyes for a long time.

My doctor is a dear woman…a petite blonde sweet-faced and cunning professional woman with a warm and generous heart.  She has a fierce and biting wit, she doesn’t take much shit, and she genuinely cares about her patients.  My suicide plan I considered in some bizarre way evidence of my having let her down.  She took it all thoughtfully, but was of course concerned.  I felt small and cold and on the edge, like I have for the past few months.  She talked about medicine changes.  She talked about endogenous depression.  She got on her cute knees and opened the draw to her end table and pulled out copious samples because my insurance wouldn’t pay for the new pills.  My ears rang and my face burned.  “You need to be hospitalized,” she said kindly, “but I can’t control your treatment there, and I know what you need”  I mutely nod my head.  I don’t feel connected to my body. I don’t feel connected to anything.

“If we don’t get this under control I believe you will kill yourself,” she says gravely.  I nod my head, crying.  “I do too,” I say, hardly believing the words coming out of my mouth.  “I do too.”

I am fine today.  I was fine yesterday.  I hope to be fine tomorrow.  One day at a time is all I can hope for.  And really, that’s all we are given.