Slow Suicide or Chemical Hairshirt

When I set out writing this blog, I like many didn't have a clue what I was doing. I just new some how, I was going to do something different. I wouldn't rail against the drug companies, there are bloggers out there who do it and do that brilliantly. I wouldn't write about recovery- steps needed to get well, there are others who write blogs about that and do that brilliantly. My niche would be something different. What goes on in your head during the thoughts of a broken brain crying out to the heavens to be heard when it is in it's madness. Sort of like Pepys and his diaries, only without the verbiage of kissing dead Queens of England.


So I write about brief periods of madness, the down and dirty about manic depression and mania. And a couple of cute fixes or pictures of my cat, because what are the joys of sharing your life with a pet if you cannot post their pictures on the Internet?

So it should come as no surprise to those who read this blog, that last Friday I went to a conference to man a booth there, for an organization I belong to at the State level. I had a nice lunch, and enjoyed the company of some real nice, wonderful people. About 1 pm I was feeling so tired, a side effect from Leukocytosis, I think, I drove home, and crashed. But on the way, stopped at the supermarket and bought some food, and some supplies for that time of the month.

Sometime between Friday night late, and Saturday morning, the black dog came. Maybe it was from a weekend of so many deaths- famous people, who seemed to go in threes, Natasha Richardson, Jade Goody, Nick Hughes, and and those not famous but still die by their own hand.

My brain is rebelling. I don't know how I am going to get though that weekend. I have no desire to write, I am too depressed to write. Something that has never happened before. I have always been able to write even from the deepest depths of hell. But my Mac mocks me. I cannot even bother to turn it on, despairing at the emails I need to write and the thought of blogging or working on my novel- it's too much. It's too much to even stroke the cat. That is a huge warning sign. When she is not Queen of my Universe, and most Exalted Feline, you know I am depressed.

It seems life has passed me by. No children. No marriage. My wedding dress hangs visible in the closet mocking me. Despite everything, that was the best day in my life. I should get rid of it, but somehow, just cannot though it torments me. I feel so empty right now- I need to be held so bad. If "The Devil and Daniel Webster" was possible- I am certain I would sell my internal soul for ten minutes to be held and to hold someone. I am also incredibly horny- it's been two and a half years now- but that's neither here nor there. Yeah, I am feeling hyper sexual. Maybe that is adding to the mix. I don't know. I just know, I cannot see myself being past this weekend. I don't want to get past it. I want to sleep. And it's been several days since I have slept. So I have bought a bottle of Advil PM, 50 pills, a bottle of Sominex, a bottle of CVS blue capsules. I have my prescription Motrin and my lithium and Cymbalta. And sometime over the weekend, I try to lie down to go to sleep sleep for an hour and go into the kitchen , pour a glass of milk and take some pills. Anything to sleep. And crawl back to bed, and sleep for another hour or two but I cannot get more of two hours at the most, and long for sleep, for blessed unconsciousness. And it's not coming. Back to the kitchen and more pills, more milk. Lie back in bed, turn on the radio, and listen to the sound of some DJ droning as I hear my heart beat like it's coming out of my chest like a Tex Avery cartoon. But still, no sleep. I just want to sleep.

Sunday night the vomiting starts. Monday morning I wake and see I have emptied all the sleeping pills bought- all in the effect of trying to sleep. And from Monday to Friday I cannot keep anything down. It is on Friday I realize it's from the pills. I basically overdosed without knowledge of over dosing- 50 Advils, 5 Motrins, 25 Sominex, 8 blue capusules. Was it intentional? I don't know. I can recall my last attempt in November 02 where I tried to hang myself and the rope broke. I can recall taking a kitchen chair outside with me, making the noose, looking at the moon, and kicking the chair away. I recall what it was like to start dying. But this- this wasn't to die. This was just to sleep, to find sleep, and maybe never wake up again, but maybe not.

A lovely friend came by one night to baby sit- I was still vomiting, and shaking. I tried to lie down and rest, and lay, sweating and trying to breathe, trying to cough to bring up phlegm, crying but not able to make tears. I look terrible. My apartment is a wreck. I haven't cleaned in a week or so, there are dust bunnies and cat vomit on the hard wood floors. I just stopped caring. I just can't deal with it right now. He stayed with me, fed me, held me and listened to me. I don't deserve such people in my life.

And right now, I feel like I am being punished. It's not "Wait til your Father gets home", it's something more visceral. Did I try to suicide- could my brain have worked that way this time? No note, I've never not had a note. I've always planned the few times I have attempted. This wasn't planned. It just-was.


And maybe that is why I did not die though now, talking to the doc, I realize I should have. Maybe it just wasn't meant to be this time. Maybe it wasn't supposed to happen. It was a fevered brain trying to cope as best as it can trying to hang on, to live.

I just know I am still shaking, still sweating, cannot stop crying. Weak as a new born calf. Anxious when I never get anxiety. And maybe I need to feel this too, as some type of divine punishment for my sin(s) this past week. My own chemical hairshirt. I don't know. I just don't know. I just know that I am not suicidal right now, which is a blessing. I have a lot of learning to do this weekend, unlike last.