The Morphine Calls

It is the morphine pills that call to me tonight. To quiet the argument going on in my head I went out and left the temptation at home.
The day has already been 40 hours long and yet the clocks reads only 8:00 pm.
Many years ago England did a study on suicide victims who chose gas ovens as their mode of escape. They came to the conclusion that when those precious few moments of mental crisis arrive....there sits the oven - a quick and easy answer. Many, many people took it. England went on to change over home ovens to electric and guess what? Their suicide rate dropped by more than 50%. I guess the lesson is - if the means is not readily available than the sane part of the mind has a chance to win the argument.
Will I be here for my appointment on the 26th?
Prayers have got to be the "x" factor.
Please keep them coming Cyberspace.

The Dilemma

I have a dilemma...
Leave a lethal amount of pills home or take them with me wherever I go? It is an ongoing debate for me over the course of the last couple days.

You see, when I had the crisis at the park recently it was somewhat shocking to me that I ended up "on the edge of the ledge" so quickly. I'm not sure I'd be here typing had that stranger not walked into my path. I had been able to leave the pills at home following that crisis but now the urge to keep them in my possession is back. The mind just battles back and forth on it.

I realized today that if I make it to this appointment day of the 26th - why will I need a psychiatrist's help? That would mean that somehow I have survived this hell for 4 weeks on my own, with just you - my Cyberspace lifeline.

Going It Alone

I had heard somewhere of a seriously depressed person who came out of their fog on a simple walk. They plodded along in their mental darkness when in crossing over from one street to the next - the lights came on. Their depression... gone - just in reaching the other side of the road.
I decided to try a walk last evening. I wanted so much to have the same result. I however, came home just as I had left.
Still I wait - 13 days until someone might tell me how I might find my way out of this.
My young son in the mean time - can't figure out where his mother went.

I know I thought it great just that you are out there Cyberspace but I have another favor to ask of you.
If you pray....please pray for me. I don't want this.

14 More Days......

There are fourteen more days until my appointment with the psychiatrist. I can hardly wrap my mind around that number - it seems like an eternity away. While I wait it becomes more difficult to imagine that I'll really make it. This hell that has become my life seems to have completely buried any sign of the old me.

I thought if I force myself to do things that once brought me joy than the joy would somehow return. I can't seem to make it happen. It seems the more I try the more numb I feel. I have tried to read but concentrating for more than a paragraph or two is almost impossible. I forced myself to spectate my son's sporting events this weekend. I saw him but felt no connection to what was happening. Simply being amid the "crowd" was a struggle. It took all my effort to stay put and watch through to the end. I used to like to listen to "talk radio" but now it came across as an annoyance to me....kind of like nails on a chalkboard.
There is no sign of the me that used to be me.

I think one of the most mysterious parts of this illness (besides the loss of appetite and sleep disruptions) is how physical contact bothers me now - I was an affectionate person who gave and loved to receive affection. Now, there is no feeling to any of it. I keep waiting for something to change....for some hint of myself to emerge. As time moves forward though, I lose hope. I keep imagining that the therapist who sent me away (with an appt for 4 weeks away) will reconsider and see me. I actually wrote her a letter practically begging her but she must not have heard the pleading scream through the paper. Well, if I don't make it through this she'll probably recognize her mistake.

At least there is you.......my lifeline in cyberspace.

The Suicide Crisis

I want the world to know that suicidal thoughts are unwanted thoughts.

I was shocked when these uninvited thoughts began to emerge. The first reaction being: "Oh my God, stop thinking that." It was not difficult back then to just push the thought from mind.
As time pushes on though and the depression digs itself in.....the unwanted answer keeps offering itself more frequently and more boldly. There is little conscious thinking before the idea appears. A voice - not my own, offers the suggestion at very vulnerable times. Last night was one such time.

It came abruptly and forcefully. "Get the pills and be done with this." My response came as quickly. I drove myself to a remote part of a park. As my sane voice began to debate with the sick voice I got out of the car and began to pace around a bit. My palms were beginning to sweat and I could feel my heart rate increase. The urging of the sick voice became louder in my head and began to drown out the protesting of the ever weakening sane voice. Just as it seemed that the illness would win - I heard a voice. At first I was so lost in thought I hardly knew from where it came. But there standing right in front of me, stood a woman asking me a question. I however, hadn't heard. Her gaze went from me to a logo on the front of my jacket. "Are you a golfer?", she asked. "No", I replied. "This jacket is just from a fundraiser". She simply smiled....nodded and walked past me.

My dangerous argument had quieted. My mind back to a calmer silence.

The crisis abated by a curious stranger.

Such madness.

Cyberspace - My Invisible Lifeline

I want anyone who is reading this to know that you are serving as my lifeline.
As crazy as it may sound - you are standing in for the professionals.
In her wisdom a therapist concluded (after meeting me once) that I was too depressed for her credentials. She set me adrift......to somehow go it alone until her recommended expert could see me in 4 weeks. I guess finding oneself in a hotel room with the express purpose of overdosing is a surefire way to have a therapist wash their hands of you.

That's where you come in.

I suppose there has to be some twisted humor in the image of the depressed/suicidal patient finally being able to squeak out a barely audible "H-E-L-P!!", only to have the door closed on their pathetic self.
So, I have decided to come to you to help ensure my safety. I know this imaginary door will always be open.

Thank you for being here.

Will I Ever Be Me Again?

In seeking help I was asked to try and explain what this hell that has taken over my life actually feels like.

Here is my lame attempt:

Imagine what "emotional amnesia" might be like. You are living with people and interacting with people that you feel a complete disconnect with. Your mind tells you that they are people you love and who love you but you can't "feel" it. You can't feel them at all. You can't feel their joys, their pain, their laughter. They're like strangers living in your world. It's like being dropped into another person's home and living there. The worst part is - you are powerless to change it. The more you try to think your way out of it.....the further away people feel. Complete isolation.

Each day you stumble through like this. The endless day turning into an endless night....