Wreck of the Day

Wreck of the Day

I was a wreck by the end of the summer.  I forced myself to constantly go out to movies, and pubs; restaurants and parties.  I made myself to do things, even though the only thing I wanted to do was lie there and die there.  Less thinking, more moving. People always say that time heals all wounds so I thought if I threw myself mindlessly into activities, enough time would pass and I would wake up one morning feeling like my old self.

If you go through my photo album from last summer, you'd be amazed at how much I did. I didn't turn anything down.  I drove myself to the point of exhaustion because that was the only way I could sleep at night.  I have flipped back through my calendar from those four months and there's nothing but scrawled dates and times, people and places.

But with the close of summer, and the approaching school year, I realized I wasn't feeling much better at all.  I worried that I was wearing out my welcome with my friends - after all, I had been so emo with them for months.  No - it was time to seek professional help before everybody decided they were fed up with my lack of discernible progress.  Apparently, you have to do more than just bide your time.  Apparently healing is an active process.

Like most people who are thinking about going into counseling, there's a moment where you have to check your pride.  Bess had never believed in therapy and head-shrinking; she thought depression was a load of baloney that you could overcome by sheer willpower alone.  Of course, this was a girl who was so mentally tough that she had actually watched a friend get shot and die in front of her and never even once considered talking to the grief counselors they had on staff.    A part of me felt incredibly soft for finally caving and admitting I needed help.

But so many others told me that I was actually pretty strong for admitting it and getting the help I needed to get over it and get on with my life.  In a way, it would be a lot easier to wallow eternally than to face all my issues directly.  Going to therapy means dredging up all the things from the murky bottom of your brain.  And if you want your therapy sessions to actually be productive, it means being scarily honest about what you want, what you feel and what you think. 

I think over the years, I'd gotten very good at lying to myself. 

So I entered therapy the way I do everything else in life: feet first, 100%, determined to be the best patient ever.  The first month of therapy I didn't do much beyond tell the therapist my sob story and cry.  I told her everything - about the Ex, John, Bess, Heather, Robby - and beyond.  Because what had shaken me wasn't just the loss of those relationships but how I was completely shook up at all.  Three years ago, I stepped into this new phase of my life confident and fearless.  And now I was quailing on a therapist's couch; I grieved as much for the loss of my imperviousness as the loss of people.  I went through boxes and boxes of tissue; it got to the point that I began bringing make up remover to my sessions so afterward I could wipe the raccoon-eyes off my face before heading to class.  I surprised myself at how much I could still feel about everything.  It had been months of repression and pushing everything aside; you would think something would have faded by now.

Every fear, concern, paranoia, wish, desire, thought, feeling was dragged kicking and screaming from the dark recesses of my mind and held up against the scrutinizing light of day.  There was something about saying these things aloud, with somebody else in the room whom I could trust entirely - it made everything more real.  But in making it more real, it made it flesh and blood and mortal instead of undefeatable skeletons and shadows lurking in my closet. 

There was the more sinister side of bringing everything to the forefront all at once, of course.  You list and then detail every disappointment and hurt of the past three years in a few hours and it suddenly seems unbearably overwhelming.  Having all my anxieties displayed on a table at once, like some poisonous feast, was one of the reasons why I had decided to kill myself in October.  It just all seemed to pointless; even if I could put all this energy into getting better, was it even worth it?

Even when you're at your own personal low, you can always go lower.  Life doesn't get better; you just solve one problem after another so it only seems like it's improving by comparison.  Instead, you're really just running on a treadmill that is slowly speeding up.

You could say I tripped and fell.

You can't reason with me when I'm feeling suicidal, which has to be extremely frustrating to those people in my life who are coldly and robotically logical.  Rational thoughts and well-timed arguments don't work because I'm driven by something purely emotional and primal.  It's this maelstrom of energy I need to get out of me.  I get annoyed when people attempt those tried and true phrases; I know they mean well and I know they don't know anything else to say.  I know those phrases are tried and true for a reason.  I know words are sometimes a poor substitute for a hug or a physical presence but in this day of texting and instant messaging and emails - it's sometimes all we have.  But it feels like I'm screaming at the top of my lungs and all people can do is paste fake plastic smiles on their faces.

Brock was the man who gave me the words that gave me pause.  He was the only one who knew of my plans and he said very simply, "I don't agree with it, but I understand."  He didn't try to force feed me unicorns and happiness, hope wrapped up in ribbons.  He didn't try to spin me 'round til I found the light at the end of the tunnel. He wasn't condescending; he didn't try to guilt trip me into staying.  It can feel like those who are not suicidal are flaunting their 'happy to be alive' status when they perkily tell me that there is so much worth living for.  You can tell me until you're blue in the face but I will never see it, I will never process it and I will never take it to heart. Sunshine can be unbearable for those hung over; I felt hung over by my existence and the last thing I wanted or needed was somebody yanking the curtains back. Brock just let me rant and rail until it was exhaustion that took me to sleep instead of my own hand taking me to a deeper peace.

Like a dutiful patient, I told my therapist about my decision.  Alarmed, she referred me to a physician, who prescribed Wellbutrin.  Suicide became less of a pressing need and was relegated to the background, like a dull buzzing in the recesses of my mind.  Any extremes in affect was blunted; the drug just didn't let me get helplessly sad.  I don't think I'll ever completely banish these thoughts and feelings.  I suspect they stem from a deeper need of mine to be in control of my ultimate destiny, but it's no longer driving me at 100 miles an hour over the edge of the cliff.  My foot might be on the gas pedal some days but I know how to brake - even if it's at the last minute.