December 2021 – Born Sleep Deprived

Resentments and Reasons to Stay

My parents are side by side in front of me, backed against the fireplace by my shouting. I’m freshly released from a two night stay in the mental hospital. I am discharging pain at them like never before.

I’m mad, but the undercurrent of my anger is resentment. It’s been building for a while without me understanding why but has now come fully up to the surface.

People should understand, I explain to them, that I’ve chosen not to kill myself more than once for their sake and not for mine. Going to doctors and faithfully taking medication isn’t going to cure my chronic illness; it only manages to drag my condition into a state of numbed suffering.

And while this is going on, my friends and family who love me dearly are off raising their children or devoting themselves to education and careers, and then there’s just me keeping my mental illness company; It doesn’t take fifteen-minute breaks, an hour lunch, and then go home at five. It never takes a day off so neither can I. I sustain my efforts to struggle one more day by reminding myself how hard it would be on my loved ones if they lost me to suicide. I stay so they can feel better.

I shout all of this at my aging parents who have just spent the entire weekend in tears because I was suffering in the hospital.

My mother stops me dead by responding with quiet yet powerful conviction. “Staying because it will stop other people from being sad is no reason to live.”

Are the Meds Working Yet?

It’s late. I know because my roommate is asleep. I’m lying on my back with the covers in my hands and under my chin. I’m not even tired yet. It’ll be about 2 am before that starts. These are the hours for my mind to wander.

My thoughts are introspective tonight, and they are not kind. “Am I a monster? Do I even care about people? I never feel anything when my friends struggle. Am I capable of loving anyone?”

Thoughts like this swirl around until I turn to actual memories. I start with my still-current friends from elementary school, junior high, high school, and all the way to the present moment. One memory from the 7th grade is standing out. A classmate had given me a plastic valentine heart with a drawing done from an anime we both liked and had bonded over. Her version of Goku from DragonballZ was flawless and still in my keepsake box.

I’m thinking about the drawing and all of a sudden, my chest starts to feel warm and it’s like I can feel the outline of my own heart for the first time. I start to cry and for some reason connect what’s happening to the mood stabilizer I’ve been taking daily for the last two months. It’s the first medication I’ve ever taken for Bi-Polar Disorder. But I’m not crying because my meds are working, I’m crying because now I know I’m not a monster. Now I know for sure that I truly love my friends.

A Suicide Note Rough Draft

I want to go home. To where I was before. Or, to wherever I’ll be after. Anywhere else is better than here. Where is here? It’s wherever I am. It follows me everywhere. It’s hollow, it’s painful, it’s numbing, and it is inescapable.

It’s not just a want. It’s a need. I need to be dead. Once I come to an end, so will everything else. Deadlines and disappointments (usually in myself), self-hatred will halt, and loneliness will leave.

I’ll no longer fill my mind with fantasies like hope, love, change, or growth. Those things are like unicorns; you can search your whole life, but you’ll never find one because they don’t exist. At least not for me.

It’s time to stop putting off my suicide. Why delay death when I’m already dead? All I’m doing is making it official.

Little Known Facts About Depression

Depression is like an infection. It injects itself into your thoughts, and, like infected cells, replicates itself. Mantras like “Give up” “I’m worthless” “I want to die” reproduce over and over again. My brain has no anti-bodies for the invasive thoughts. Every time I hear a voice say, “Kill yourself.”, my brain’s automated response is, “I should kill myself. I’m just using up oxygen that could be put to better use.” And the disease intensifies.

Depression is like the narcissistic partner that gaslights me into thinking I’m the problem. With subtle hints about how my clothes, taste in friends, and career choice are all pathetic, they get inside my head. Even though deep down I know they’re wrong, I can’t help but wonder if they’re right. Maybe the way I dress does suck and my friends don’t care about me and I am pathetic….

Depression is like a little red devil sitting on my shoulder whispering in my ear that it’s all in my head. All the while, tempting me to drown out what’s in my head with drugs, alcohol, and lashing out.

I don’t know the scientific reason why depression is so convincing. I guess I could do some research on chemicals and neurotransmitters. But the empirical evidence is clear; depression is real as hell, and so are its lies. Real… but not true.

Am I Happy Again?

My Hell is ending. My god-like purpose is ebbing away. My creative flow is being dragged down the drain. The false, hollowed out clarity, and intense cosmic purpose is fading too. As is the promise that if I did what I was instructed, I’d get to travel out of state and kill myself. I have to stay now. My suicide has been stolen from me. Now I’m all sedated and bored and sad and scared and humiliated. Plus, my ability to pay attention has been incinerated. Nothing can be focused on long enough to distract me from this grating phase change. Cool.

Now I’m medicating, sleeping, and waking up to medicate. Oh… it’s time to medicate some more. Yay.

Recovery is happening. My spirit is so mangled. Parts are shredded and some pieces are gone completely. I’ll never be whole again.

Hmm…. I’m remembering something. A feeling I forgot and a memory that’s not just a ‘what’ and ‘when’, but an emotional sensation. It’s lovely. Like the first scent of changing Seasons; A warm summer night, Autumn leaves, Late-spring rain. Wow. How can something so faint and delicate hit so hard? Is it from my life though? And there’s more than one; How my camera feels in my hand while I’m photographing ordinary objects in a unique way. The urge to go out and buy myself a new sketchbook for my new ideas. Oooohh… that’s the electric vibe of sitting in a movie theater seat as the lights dim and the screen widens on the super hero hit of Block Buster season. That’s the good stuff right there. Are these memories actually mine?

Wait.

Wait you guys, I’m scared. I’m really scared right now. If I’m remembering life before My Hell, that means I’m forgetting what My Hell feels like. What if it becomes numb and distant? What if I can’t remember what My Hell feels like at all? How will I brace myself for when the next one hits?! I’ve got to keep my guard up. Can’t get blind-sided this time. Have to sleep with one eye open. Won’t lose track of this.

Not Ever.

No… No, no no No NO!

I can’t live like this. This is how I’ve been doing it the whole time and I still ended up in My Hell. To hell with My Hell! You know what I want? I want to be present to my core when I smell spring again. I want nothing existing in the back of my head sniffing out future misery. What about that Fireworks show I caught recently? I can see it framed beautifully between the rising buildings of downtown from the top of Capitol Hill. I’m leaning with my back against the crosswalk post, looking down on some gorgeous explosions that I can hear from five miles away. The finale thrills my senses while time slows down at the end of an ordinary day. That memory still shimmers inside my head, stored away in a precious part of my brain. It’s filed under the category of “Unanticipated Joy”.

Wait a second.

Is the inside of my head a safe place now? A safe place….

Am I still pretty roughed up and a little tender, but… happy?

Yeah.
I’m happy again.