There are a lot of pills sitting on my bathroom counter. There are even more sitting on the counter in the kitchen. Some are the same, just spread around so that I don’t have to trudge around looking when the stairs are not very Lary friendly. Anti-depressants, painkillers, drugs to help fight various infections, the list is amusing and might on some level violate my security clearance. The amount of Schedule One Narcotics alone might make someone consider taking my car keys away!
One night I sat around and the depression had truly taken me by the balls and ripped me apart. The voices in my head were so loud and so nasty that I kept staring at the collection in front of me and started doing the math. Not in my head, I took the opportunity to sit with a piece of paper and look up how things could be mixed and what effect they would have. I wasn’t looking to wake up the next day having had my stomach pumped, I was looking to kill myself.
Even while writing this I can still hear my ex’s mother blaming me for things she has no idea how much I tried to correct. Situations where it was just easier to say it was my fault rather than wonder how to fix the problem. The look on her face the last time I saw her, telling me I was worthless. Sorry, didn’t know. [I wish I still didn’t feel that way, 8 months later. But I internalized so many things when I should have spoken up that I don’t know when I will finally be able to let them go.]
I can hear those voices telling me that as soon as I decide to head back to my own house, they are going to start playing the same tune. “Hey Lary, you haven’t spoken to anyone in months. What the hell does it matter?” And I worry that they’ll find that time when I least need to hear that. But then that is the fun of depression. Staying 300 miles away, yet even avoiding the people here who know me, smart plan!
Writing about whatever fantasy still exists in my heart about my daughter is the only way I have left of dealing with it. And with every word, I know that if someone were in the room when I write them they would see the pain and anguish. No need to ask, they know where my thoughts are.
One of those days, when the pills were about to win I forced myself to get in the car and I drove over to my doctor’s office. I just sat in the waiting area for a while until the receptionist figured out I wasn’t waiting for anyone. She asked if I was okay, and the only thing I could do was shake my head. I couldn’t express what my head was screaming. She led me back to an exam room and after some time someone came in and asked “Lary, do you need to go to the hospital?” I didn’t know the answer. I just sat there shaking. Fortunately someone thought to call my mother to come and get me. [this of course was before I had changed the notification form, so my ex was their first call.] I lost it by the time she came in the room. I hadn’t said a word, but obviously everyone knew what the problem was.
That combination of cancer, dead child and having watched a relationship blow up all in six months had finally gotten me. I was broken. No, I am broken. Hey guess what? That also keeps me from talking to any person about this aside from the therapists. No reason to drag them further into this. I thought I had friends I could truly talk to, but I figure they are more of the “How’s the weather/work/price of tea in China” variety.
So I tried to kill myself not that long ago. Those pills and my cancer would have made it real easy to do. Sucks when your mind thinks that is the best solution to a problem. The answer, ironically different drugs!
Lately I feel something building back up, my inability to sleep is a sign of that. I’m scared of how it will work it’s way out of me. But I know to keep trying to find help, to admit it is a problem. Those questions about a few things continuing to fight their way to the forefront. Damn it, time to get moving to the doctor for some tests. Another issue I wish would just end!
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “A Mystery Wrapped in an Enigma.”