bearthinking

About recovering from depression and suicide.

remembering to create: day four

I was getting tired of waking up. Nothing was right, my brain was not mine. All of this was just too much. Much too much. The walk down the hall, the vitals being taken, breakfast. It all blurred in my head like bad mustard and ketchup, not making any sense but just being dealt with.

I could not stop thinking about what others were talking about. I kept focusing on them so I would not have to deal with the harsh realities of my subjective truths. I talked for them so I would not hear myself. I cracked jokes, made pithy comments, shared my insights, anything to stop hearing the screaming in my own head. The scream of the mother outside of the building where her children are being burned to death. The man in the apartment building across the way who was torturing himself with guilt because he wanted his 23 year old son’s girlfriend. The man who was starving and just wanted anything to eat, so desperate he got his gun out and thought about bread and how no one had to get hurt. The girl with blood running down her thighs, crying, hoping, alone and hurt.

Focus on the moment, they tell me. Be mindful of the present. Hic et nunc. I had no present, I had no place. Home was gone, washed away by the winter winds of a Kansas summer. Brooklyn had come and gone, Ohio, Florida, Connecticut, Indiana, Virginia; all gone, destroyed with one word, never to be seen or heard or felt again. I could not die, but neither could I live. Stuck, like Muhammad’s coffin, but without the Grace of Allah, the Merciful and Compassionate.

The day passed in a random series of events. Nothing meaningful, or not meaningful. I was a pinball in the machine, being flipped and bounced around. Playing pool (boing), outside (flip), another session (ting, ting, ting!), lunch (bounce between three bumpers until suddenly getting flipped back to the springshooter), going outside (ta-ching, bing-boing), just racking up points for some scoreboard until I rocketed between the exit bumpers and found myself sitting with everyone else in two groups of chairs facing each other across a string strung from one side of the room to the other about head height.

After discussing team names, we played balloon volleyball. No butts out of the chairs, if a balloon went under the ‘net’ it was a point unless the team it was travelling towards touched it – then it was still in play. We kept at it, bouncing the balloon, smacking it for ‘spikes’. It seemed to me that the ones who had the most emotional trouble were actually the ones with the best ability. Ophelia made many saves and was very good at getting the balloon to the strongest players on her team.
The team I was on won. But our victory was not a victory against, but for. I did not feel the need to “lord it over” the players on the other team. I think I would have been just as happy… strange, to think of being happy… anyway, just as happy as if they had won.

Then it all came back. The pain, the loneliness, the fear, the loss, despair. Depression reared up within me, claiming my life, my happiness, my achievements. I had to cry, I could not cry. I could not be happy, I had to be depressed. The fog rolled in and covered me in a blanket of nothingness, seeking to cut me off from myself.
Chains enveloped me, strangled my heart, my soul, my toes. Everything shattered into a million, billion, trillion, quadrillion, googleplex shards of whole grain soup and wilted lettuce. People began to run backwards into the futures, seeing what has been, not what will be. The carpet ran up my legs and swallowed air from a thousand days of mad sanity. The voices cried, died, sighed.
Food was on the fork nearing my mouth. Lasagna. It was okay, I was no longer running. I ate, I responded to others’ queries, statements, interjections. I could no longer hold back what I thought. I said things, I do not know what. People smiled though.

Fire and wind, pills and pain. I watched TV with the others and thought of chicken enchiladas. We played chess, my roommate, the non-poseur Christian, the Elvis Costello man, and I.
Why can we not believe in ourselves? We can so easily believe in others, but not ourselves. I won each time, not victories of defeating my opponents, but an exchange of thought, of process, of communicating existence.

And evening and morning were the fourth day…

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September 23, 2009 - Posted by | autobio, depression, recovery, suicide | , , , ,

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