Breaking Bad Habits

What will I do when suicide is no longer my fallback plan? The weight of responsibility is crushing. As terrifying as it may sound and not to downplay my own anguish, the thought of ending my own life is a sanctuary of sorts. When I am low, I become absolutely fixated on my own inadequacies and so will never be able to accomplish anything. The fear of failure is greater than the fear of death.

As I recover (fingers crossed!), I will have to begin facing those anxieties of underachieving without a light at the end of the tunnel. But how? Wanting to live despite sure heartache, failure and disappointment requires breaking the bad habit of entertaining the idea of just opting out. 

When my mum was trying to get me to stop sucking my thumb she painted my nail with some sort of vile tasting polish. Hmm, so what then will be my vile tasting polish for this bad habit? 

Working in a bookstore for four years I have avoided the self-help section like the plague. The section astounded me; thousands of books all geared towards self-improvement. Flipping through the table of contents of any of them lead me to two conclusions: positive thinking is the key to happiness and that the self-help industry has been built on the most head-slappingly, simple obvious advice. Think good thoughts and your life will improve! Earth-shattering! Cats and dogs, living together!  

But alas, I’ve lost my natural instinct for positivity and so my Olympian-like proclivity for daydreaming is a thing of the past. 

Although a severe depressive episode usually cannot be helped and is so debilitating that to focus on anything other than the depression requires Herculean strength; negative thinking is a dangerous byproduct. And once that negative thought weasels in there the next low is that much closer. The key seems to be focusing on the not-so-low times and squeezing some happy thoughts between unhappy. I need to force myself to daydream again.

I’m not going to be making a vision board or anything but I’ll give positive thinking a shot.

So, getting back to my original quandary of what to do when suicide is no longer my fallback future, well, instead of killing myself I’m going to get a dog and name her Dorothy Barker. I am going to work on reading a book a week. I will keep writing this blog and try my hand at writing fiction again. My best friend and roommate is moving away so I will find a new apartment, a beautiful little one-bedroom with a big sunny kitchen and vine covered balcony. I applied for university and I will get my BA studying the classics. I am going to run everyday and maybe even try my hand at a marathon. I’m going to save up money and go visit my darlings in Edinburgh and Albania (?!) and my brother in Denmark. 

There is so much for me to look forward to and knowing that right this moment when I am relatively stable is all the more important because I’m not out of the woods yet. The darkness will fall upon me again but until then I will fortify myself with my dreams .

Stuff Outside the Window at 2am

There is a man across the street standing in front of the vegetarian roti place. He is at a forty-five degree angle from the wall and not moving. It is weird and I wonder why he is there. Oh geez, I think he’s peeing. Yep, definitely peeing. And he’s moving on. Why the forty-five degree angle, though? Why wouldn’t he just face the wall? Hmm, curious. Now he’s gone and there’s no one else - wait - a guy in a white shirt and black pants just walked by rather briskly for two in the morning. Ok, now there’s no one else. Quiet night on London Street. This was a dumb idea. 

I'd Pan That River for Gold... That's What She Said

Oh, my fucking god, I have fallen in love. Head over heals, goofy, can’t fall asleep, tingly love. I actually feel a little like throwing up and, what’s this, I’m smiling; there’s probably even a twinkle in my eye. Wondering who the lucky gent is? Don’t, it’s not a gent at all. Not a lucky lady, either. Now, keep in mind I’ve been depressed (am depressed?) and just be happy that there’s a skip in my step, the object of my affection is a TV show (ah, it feels so inadequate a description!), Deadwood. 

There should be no surprise, really, despite the whole not a person thing, Deadwood does share a lot of characteristics with most of my previous loves; scruffy, alcoholic, dangerous, sensitive but tough, mean, incredibly sharp and kinda dirty with one hell of a swagger. And totally unrequited but let’s not go down that long, dusty, foreboding road.

If Deadwood were a man, I’d swim a thousand miles in freezing water just to watch him take off his shirt. 

I’ve had a thing for the wild West for some time now thanks to Cormac McCarthy and Wallace Stegner (shout out to Blood Meridian and Angle of Repose, yo) not to mention Clint Eastwood, so I was drawn to Deadwood for the setting if nothing else. There is something so romantic about the frontier; about the violence and survival and bravery and lawlessness; it’s all so primal. Whew, I’m giving myself goose-bumps. 

So, Deadwood: Wild Bill Hickock? Check. Calamity Jane? Check. Drunken gold miners? Check. Sassy whores and grizzled saloon keepers? Check and check. Alright, looking pretty good but that doesn’t exactly equal unbridled passion so throw in the rest of the motley crew; there’s Doc Cochran, angry, bitter and heart of gold; the mayor, E B Farnum, conniving, sniveling and slimy; Jewel the crippled cleaner who teaches Doc Cochran how to dance; Wu, the Chinese opium dealer who will feed you to his pigs; and Sol Starr, co-owner of the hardware store who is so smitten with Trixie the prostitute (she’s got tricks, see?) that it hurts my heart. And as if that weren’t enough there is Al Swearengen, who runs a whorehouse and all things illegal.

A man after my own heart, Swearengen turns swearing into an art; he talks fast and despite the wit you know he’d cut your heart out and send it to your mother. Some of his amazing lines:

In life you have to do a lot of things you don’t fucking want to do. Many times, that’s what the fuck life is… one vile fucking task after another.

…

If I bleat when I speak, it’s because I’ve just been fleeced.

…

Here’s my counter-offer to your counter-offer: go fuck yourself.

…

I’m declaring myself conductor of this meeting as I have the bribe sheet.

…

Dan, don’t you agree that truth, if only a pinch, must season every falsehood, or else the palate fucking rebels?

…

Over time, your quickness with a cocky rejoinder must have gotten you many punches in the face.

What’s not to love about this guy? But really I’ve been saving the best for last: the sheriff and co-owner of the hardware store, Seth Bullock. Sweet baby Moses, that smoldering glare, the way he tears off Alma Garrett’s petty-coat, the sorrow in his eyes as he held his dead friend, how his muscles ripple while he…does anything. I don’t even want to imdb the actor for fear he’s married. Sad? Yes, but at least it’s not depressing (ba dum ching)!

This is just a perfect fucking show and all you cocksuckers should rent it or I’ll cut your collective throats. Man, it’s just not the same when I say it.

Grin and Bear it

I wish I had another disease. A beatable but taxing disease; I don’t mean to trade up. Just something I could fight stoically and be praised for staying positive. If I have to struggle then I’d at least like to inspire. I want to write a funny but touching memoir all about how turning that frown upside down helped me live life to the max (in my head, to the max was said in a demolition derby announcer voice — try it!).

Instead, I’m stuck with depression; a disease that has stripped my coping mechanisms and destroyed any buffer I once had between what I feel and what comes out of my mouth. My emotions have gone up against rational thought and kicked the shit out of it; now rational thought doesn’t even bother showing up.

I have always been rather volatile and passionate and I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve but now I’m a hysterical mess. My perception is distorted and I’m so sensitive that any tiny, miniscule injustice, real or imagined affects me like acid to the face. I will lash out and bite your fucking head off.

Yesterday, I sat upstairs, fuming, while my sister and my dad threw my brother a birthday dinner because my dad’s girlfriend’s kids showed up for a free meal and beer. And when I found out she made the chocolate cake my recently deceased grandmother made for every single birthday I stormed out in tears.

Would I have been irritated if I wasn’t depressed? Probably. Was it in bad taste to bake a cake using the recipe of a woman she’d never met? YES. Do I want her kids to be my bestest friends forever? No. But, if I were in my normal state of mind, would I have ruined my brother’s dinner by acting like they’d all burned down my house and then kicked my dog? Definitely not. 

The dangerous part comes after an outburst when it dawns on me that perhaps I over-reacted, misunderstood or imagined conflict. I retreat into an impenetrable shell. I will slice up my hands and wrists with whatever sharp tool is at hand; I cry so much that I pee dust; I hate myself and miss myself in equal measures.

After I left my dad’s I drove over to my mum’s home and the whole way over I was overcome with such sorrow over my reaction that I wanted to drive off the bridge. Tears streamed down my face and the self-loathing weighing on my soul felt like a thousand tonnes. 

These ‘fits’ last from fifteen minutes to two hours; it usually depends on whether I have people around me or not. Being with my mum snapped me out of it that time. I hate being so dependent; I feel as if I’m just needy or desperate for attention.  

I’m scared that I am going to ruin all my relationships by acting like a crazy person then playing the depression card. So far, I’ve lost one close friendship and I will grieve for that friend for a very long time but I have to believe that my other relationships are stronger. That from those who love me I can be given patience, compassion and empathy while I struggle to get better. 

In return, I will try and try and try to temper my reactions, to check my perceptions and to get back to passionate instead of tempestuous. 

While I may not ever inspire people with my story and attitude, maybe I can manage to come out of this with all my friendships intact. That would be way better than writing an Oprah approved memoir.

Catch-22

I am terrified of getting better and terrified that I won’t. I’m terrified I’m not actually depressed I’m just dramatic. Haven’t I always been a tad sensitive? And surely this paranoia business is not new. Maybe I just need a change of scenery and then all the emptiness will wash away. When I am at my lowest I am convinced that all I have to do is think positively and the fact that I can’t incites rage and frustration and serves to deepen the depression; truly a vicious cycle.

Already a person drawn to extremes, the depression has taken all of my personality traits and exaggerated them; blown them up blimp-style so that even my good attributes have been mutated to monstrous proportions. Remember the Stay-Puff marshmallow man from Ghostbusters? That’s me. That’s my generosity. That’s my loyalty. That’s my selflessness. My humility is about to crush your car. 

So imagine what it’s like to give up control of my mind to a disease.

I’ve always prided myself on my ability to take responsibility for my actions; this has to be something I’ve brought on myself so there has to be something I can do! That my brain is attacking me seems like something out of a sci-fi movie, a bad sci-fi movie, something starring Sharon Stone.

I have to take others’ words for it that this is not me, I am not a Godzilla of emotion and that I am in fact suffering from depression.

Slowly I’m getting the hang of it and to be honest the relinquishment has been kind of nice. It’s exhausting fighting to get healthy while denying that I am sick to begin with.

Unfortunately, with this comes the terrifying notion that maybe I’ll never get better. I don’t want to have to work this hard forever. There is a person that I want to be, that maybe I once was, and the thought of never realizing her is almost as bad as thinking that I have destroyed her myself. Almost.

Still Life

Today was a hard day, hence the bleak entry. I don’t want this blog to be all gloom and doom so I’ve posted one of my favourite happy-songs. Maybe listen to it while reading the post to lighten the mood (plus the juxtoposition of happy music and sad content could be very Lynch-like). 

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There is a picture of me that was taken at a concert. I am dancing with a couple of friends in the crush of the crowd and my face is red and I am glistening with sweat and my hair is frizzy and untamed but it is the expression on my face that catches my attention: unadulterated joy.

Like an amnesiac (or at least the amnesiacs on soap operas) I am revisiting the past so as to find my way to the future; a sort of retracing of steps; photo albums are the bread crumbs on the trail home. It is just too surreal that in less than two years I have gone from doing my best to enjoy life no matter what to dreading waking up. Physical proof might be the only thing that could convince me that I haven’t always been prone to crying at Sylan commercials. Besides, I also need some motivation to get better; knowing that a pretty alright person is lurking in here somewhere might inspire me to fight this.

There are the pictures from a road trip I took with six of the greatest people on earth, my best friends, and from years of summers at the cottage, hundreds from the parties that I used to love throwing and even more of me posing with my sister or hamming it up with my brother.

I scour the photographs, anxiously searching for something familiar the way you scan a crowded room for a friendly face but I just see a grinning stranger. A stranger surrounded by my loved ones, living what I so desperately want to be my life. 

How could that be me? The contrast is jarring and completely demoralizing. That person is in colour and I am a palette of gray. Those eyes are bright, smiling; mine are tired and dead. 

Even worse are my baby pictures. God, I was a cute-ass baby; a blonde little cherub with big blue eyes and a sweetly shy smile. I look at my mum and my dad and my grandparents, aunts, uncles and they are starring at baby me with adoration and pride and all I feel is guilty for having let them all down. 

Far from bolstering hope, I feel painfully sad. All the reminders of fun are daggers to my heart. I am uncertain whether I will ever be able to experience happiness again and whether the same things will give me joy. Will I love to read? Will I be able to see shows again or even appreciate music in any capacity? What about cooking, writing or playing squash? Will I be able to carry on a conversation, rant and go on tangents or engage in witty banter? I loved banter! Will I ever again sit on the dock at dusk and want to weep from the weight of peace? I can’t imagine laughing until my sides hurt or just smiling and meaning it.

I grieve for my past because it seems as lost as a dinghy to the raging sea. With nothing to anchor me and nothing to look forward to I am forced to exist only in the present and that present is often lined with broken glass.   

Adventures in Depression

A month ago I tried to kill myself. I left work early, wrote out instructions and goodbyes then swallowed forty Tylenols. Pretty grim stuff.

Apparently Tylenol is one of the most toxic medications out there. I had to stay in the hospital over night, getting stuck for blood every couple hours to keep an eye on my heart, liver and kidneys. I had an allergic reaction to the IV they hooked me up to; my face swelled, I was itchy all over, mouth like a cotton ball. They got me onto Benadryl at five thirty in the morning then sent in the psychiatrist for an evaluation. Nothing says fun like trying to answer questions about your mental health while doped up with Benadryl. Oh, and I had had to pee since two.

Alright, so it’s kind of hard to find a good anecdote about my suicide attempt but don’t fault a girl for trying. Truth is, it fucking sucked. All of it; the constant needles, the charcoal and subsequent vomiting, having to pee for what felt like eternity, hurting my family and my friends, all of whom had been supporting me unconditionally since this nasty depression took hold. The worst part, even worse than the feelings leading up to the tango with the Tylenol (ok, maybe not worse because, shit yo, that was hell on earth) was the numbness I felt while lying on that hospital bed, realizing that I was going to be “ok”.

I didn’t overdoes because I wanted to die. I did it because I couldn’t stand feeling the way I felt for another second. It was the impulse to put a hurt animal out of it’s misery. For months I had been in agony. A dull, throbbing pain like being suffocated or drowning. My body had turned against me; blurry vision, jerky movements, exhaustion. My mind as well; a termite-riddled memory, shrunken vocabulary, paranoia, crushing anxiety, crippling guilt and a growing terror that “this was it”.

Maybe I’m weak but I couldn’t go on like that; being completely cognizant of the war waging in my head but being completely powerless to stop it.

I didn’t cry and repent my sins, not even when my Mum arrived from the airport. I couldn’t because reality was too painful. I lay there and just was as if I hadn’t brought myself to the brink. I had talked myself into doing the most hurtful, selfish thing I could have done. I had resisted nature; gone against Darwin. And what did I have to show for it? I wanted, desperately, to be relieved and happy to be alive. I wanted to leave the hospital and hear birds chirping. All I felt was let down. Let down and frustrated that the single biggest decision of my life left no mark. I was still depressed. My future was still a never ending tundra of nothing.

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I don’t know how to end this maiden post. That is all I can do for tonight. The punch line is that I’m still here and for the first time in close to two years I am feeling optimistic about my life. The drugs have started working. Hip hip hurray.

I hope that writing about my experiences with depression will be cathartic and, who knows, maybe even helpful to someone out there who needs a kindred spirit.

All I know is that to survive I need to suck the poison out.