bearthinking

About recovering from depression and suicide.

remembering to create: Day Two

My first thought upon waking was “oh… i’m alive, damn”, *sigh*.  So I got out of bed, and wandered down the hall to get breakfast.  I was stopped along the way to let people get my vitals: blood pressure, blood oxy, temperature, and pulse.  I wandered away from there and was then caught up in the tide of people getting their breakfast trays.

After I ate, the flow carried me away and into a room where we sat around a large table.  Some papers were passed around, some one talked telling us to fill them out.  ‘What makes me most sad is _______’, ‘I feel most complete when  _______’, ‘When I am sad I like to  _______’, ‘I am happy when  _______’; there were others along that line.

It was too much.  Everything reminded me of why I was there.  Reminded me of everything that hurt, that burned my soul, that I had lost and made me empty, worthless, hopeless, dead.

I smelt my way back to my cave, my refuge.  I curled into a fetal mass around my pain, trying to wash it away from me with my tears as it ripped me apart yet again.  Pain swallowed me like a tourist in a piranha maelstrom.  Bits of me were flensed and devoured; I sank into the depths, away from life and light.

A hand touched my shoulder.  A simple, open hand touch of the fingers, very light on me, no pressure, no demand, nothing but the touch of another.  “Are you okay?  Do you need anything?”  “go away.”  “Okay, but I will be back to check on you.”  “go away.”

time passed in waves of roiling grief and anguish

“Gor, it is lunch time.  Come on, let’s get something to eat,” said a gentle voice.  “no, please”  “Would you like me to bring your tray here and we can eat here?”  “go away… i’m not hungry”  “Okay.  There are more sessions after lunch, and there are people out here who are worried about you and would like to see you.  They want to make sure you are alright.”  “no, please, i can’t”  “Well, okay, I’ll be back later to check on you.”  “whatever”

time passed away with everything i loved, needed, built my life, my soul around
all gone…

i still don’t know why i got up later  comfortably wrapped in a fetal ball of nothing  they were gone… my son, my… my… wife, my ex-wife, my art, my muse, my love and forever… gone, lost, why am i not dead… just let me stop and die… please…  please?

But i did get up.  My body walked down the hall again.  i sat somewhere.  Things happened around me, but a gentle voice echoed in my skull.  The voice that told me people cared.  The voice did not ask anything of me, did not want me to do anything except to be.  Be here.  Be alive.

i sat in a session.  i do not remember what it was about, or what happened.  i remember the depression, the sadness, the anger, the mania, the voices that spoke endings and loss.  It was almost too much, piranhas stripping joy, love, happiness from my morose skeleton… let me die… let me stop… stop…

But as I sat in the session, the voice spoke.  It spoke different words, it seemed to be talking about it’s own depression, it’s own attempt to die, to stop…  i… I brought my eyes up and looked at the voice.  It was my room mate.  He had tried to die too.  Someone else spoke of dying, of despair, of loss.  I was in a room of those who knew.  Who had taken that step, who had tried to stop and not be.  Those who had seen nothing and found it within themselves to not be any more.

I saw people.  I sat among them.  They asked nothing of me.

I listened, I tried to speak, I do not know now what, if anything, I said or what the session was about.  It was, is, not important; but I sat there with my peers and heard myself from other perspectives, other words, other pains.

The session ended.  We dispersed into the halls and other areas.  I sat and saw a young woman, a Waterhouse Ophelia with rich waves of auburn, warm alabaster skin, and deep pale blue echoes of pain and betrayal.  She was coloring, away in her own world, away from the pain, the fear, the betrayal, the others.  A child violently wrenched from delight into despair trying to stay where she could be happy, free, alive again.

Another came up to her, touched her shoulder.  She froze, ready to kill, ready to run, ready to die.  Everything drained from her face; a mask came over her, draped the world behind a grey mist.

“Don’t touch me,” she said in dead tones, “I have anger management problems.  I do not like to be touched.”  There was no threat, no emotion, almost as though she had generated it from a computer, and played the file to warn people that this was not a good idea.  Nothing about her threatened; her body was a taut, still immoveable mass.

The other removed her hand, and backed slowly away.  By the time she found her own voice, Ophelia was already back in her own world, the threat to her safety, to the last shreds of self had receded.  She resumed laying down patches of color, small oblongs progressing subtly from shade to shade, hue to hue, tone to tone.

I felt the need to protect her, to keep her safe.  I wanted, in that moment, to destroy what had stolen her peace, what had taken delight from her to replace it with pain.  She looked up at me then.  I do not know why she did, but I saw in her eyes that she would never be wholly free from it, that she would have that pain, that crippling memory the rest of her life.  Nothing could eradicate it, nothing could replace it, but she would endure however she could if she could.  In her I saw an island refuge, tall enough to be touched by light, but eternally isolated in the worst of the abyss.  Only wings would save her, only her desire to fly if she could ever come to trust it.

And the evening and the morning were the second day.

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September 7, 2009 - Posted by | autobio, depression, recovery, suicide

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