Babar is in My Living Room, and He’s a Morose Sonofabitch

Not. Doing. Well.

It’s all in between my fucking ears, as usual. That’s always the problem area with me.

I had a good day yesterday. A friend visited and made my day. Hell, my month. So why are these awesome moments so short-lived in my head? I’m back to miserable today. Overwhelmed. Feeling on the verge of…shit, I don’t know. Not quite a breakdown, but close.

Every task becomes this monumental thing hanging over my head. Checking my blood sugar. Taking meds. A load of laundry. The dishes. Getting Mom another glass of water. Writing a story for work. Answering the phone, texts. Making an appointment for my head CT (Tuesday). I’m waiting for that Final Straw. Surely it’s coming.

And it’s days like this when I tend to cloak myself in one of my sweetest comforts. No, not Guinness. Not even rubbing one out. I’m talking about suicidal thoughts.

Bear me out here. I’m safe. You need to know that.

One of the hardest questions I get asked by shrinks is whether or not I’m suicidal.

“Are you having suicidal thoughts?” they ask.

The short answer is, “Yes.” But if I just drop a “yes” out there with no qualifiers,  I’m sure to wind up in a rubber room somewhere. No key.

Now, any shrink or therapist worth their fees will follow up such an answer with another question.

“Have you made any plans to harm yourself?”

THAT is the REAL question, the important question. Because while I *think* about suicide every day…every hour, even…I would never ACT on those thoughts.

Now that we have that out of the way…

I’ve spoken a little about my inner voice(s). Some might call it my Inner Critic, but that’s not strong enough a term. It’s like an ARMY of Inner Critics. That’s another iffy question for me…”Do you hear voices?” I’ve said, too, that sometimes these inner voices sound as clear to me as a real-live person.

Let’s say I fuck up, something I do routinely. We all do, we’re human.

My inner dialogue might go a little like this:

Gah! You’re a fucking idiot!

I wish I was dead.

Lightning quick, it’s out there in my head, it’s often the very FIRST thought that pops to mind.

I should die.

Everything would be simpler if I were dead. All the problems, the depression, the anxiety, my fucking up all the time, my loneliness, feeling so overwhelmed, so broken. All. Gone. In an instant.

I could get hit by a Mack truck. I could jump in the tub with a plugged-in toaster. I could jump off the Sebring water tower. Hanging is a popular choice. Pills I’m not thrilled with…tried that. Once. Guns. Trains. So many choices.

I often fall asleep thinking about all the ways I could blink myself out of the universe. It’s comforting. Morbid, sick, yes…but comforting. There’s power in knowing I can snuff it all away.

Now, I’m not saying it’s healthy to think like this. It’s not. At all. It’s part of my makeup, though. It’s hard-wired into my brain, these instant (sometimes gruesome) wishes for death.

I’ve come to grips with the myriad of unhealthy things happening in my brain. I know they’ll likely never, ever go away. I also know I’ll never act on the suicidal shit. Why?

I could never do that to the people in my life. Suicide is wrong, period. It’s an act of anger, and it’s the most selfish, heinous thing a person can possibly do. I don’t want to get into debates about how child molesters are far worse, or that people in chronic pain should have the right to assisted suicide. Honestly, I don’t give a fuck if you agree or disagree with me. I know I’m right. I’ve seen suicide, how it affects people.

You want to instantly become the Douchiest Person on Earth? Kill yourself. And if you do, don’t expect me to come to your funeral. I don’t mourn assholes.

What kept me from following through on my one suicide attempt in the mid 90’s was my daughters. Dark living room with a single lit candle, I had the pills all swallowed, my bottle of wine to wash them down with. Only a few minutes passed, and I was in tears. Then my girls popped into my head, and I cried even harder. I realized I was about to become the Douchiest Person on Earth.

Like I hadn’t screwed them up enough already? Now I was going to saddle my girls with a father who committed suicide? Put them through a life of fucked-uppedness? No.

I got up, went to the toilet, shoved fingers into my mouth, and puked all that shit out. No ambulance, no hospital, no further ceremony. I cried myself to sleep, knowing I was so fucked up I couldn’t even take my own life. And that the pain was still very much there.

My girls…that’s a sore subject with me. A topic for another post, maybe. Let’s just say that, in order to protect them from my bottom-of-the-pit depression, I played the neglect card. I thought I was doing the right thing, keeping them from me. I was wrong, perhaps the wrongest I’ve ever been. And that haunts me daily. Those relationships are non-existent now, both of them are fed up with my shit.

But I can say I didn’t pull the trigger, and my girls are the reason why I’m still here today. Sometimes they’re the ONLY reason, and that’s enough. We all need a reason to not be dead, preferably multiple reasons.

So…today. Back to the present. Days like today, when I’m down and overwhelmed and anhedonic, make me think of suicide a lot. Because it’s the hopelessness that convinces me this shit will never EVER end. I will NEVER have relief. Precisely why I watch “Highlander” and shudder at the thought of living forever. Fuck, I dread making it another 20 years on days like today. Living for all of eternity? No fucking thanks.

I got my new meds in the mail today. The Abilify, and the one for the nightmares. I have a lot of concerns, I’ve told you why before. But my need for something better – anything better – is so great that I’m gonna try this shit again.

I’ve already agreed to not leave Mom’s sight for 3 hours after taking the Abilify tomorrow morning. I look inside that vial and see those teeny little pills, and I think, “That little thing could make me or break me. THAT.” They terrify me.

I read through the list of potential side effects. Diabetes is mentioned specifically. Could raise my blood sugar, and mine has been not so great already. Could lower my blood pressure – which is always damn good – and make me faint.

But it could…just maybe…work. I’m not holding my breath, though.

And I’m pretty sure I know how I’ll be falling asleep tonight.

Jumping off an overpass. Barrel in my mouth. Too much insulin. It’s the Parade of Morbidity, and I am the mutherfucking Grand Marshall.