All has not been entirely well in the kingdom lately. A lot has happened since last I posted, though I suppose that’s simply what happens when you only poke your head in once or twice a month, at best. Still though, there seems far more rainier days than sunshine as of late. On the outside, I appear fine. Functional, even. But we all know how dangerously deceiving appearances can be, and how exhausting it is, keeping up said appearances. And gods, am I tired. Depression has me in its steely maw, and I can feel my will threatening to shatter under the force…
Death and sickness have been the name of the game lately, stifling the air with their reeking presence. Yesterday was the first day I felt even marginally human again after battling an upper respiratory infection/bronchitis bout which had me in Urgent Care three times over the course of two weeks. Just a week before I’d wanted to die, and here I’d honestly feared I was going to.
Tis the season for suicidal ideation, though, it seems. I found myself desperately attempting to comfort a close friend last night after seeing a worrisome Facebook status. Nothing worked. Nothing helped. I knew too damned well what he was experiencing to think that anything I could say was going to mean fuck all, but still I had to try. I hope it helped though, if only a little. But that feeling of helplessness- to watch someone you care about talk about wanting to die as if they were commenting on the weather. Cloudy, with a chance of overdose.
I thought back to a week prior, when I’d woken up to a message from my Dad. Frodo Beggins, his dog now, but the first dog I ever called “mine”, was dead. That little Napolean-complexed bastard had gotten out of the yard. Ran into the road. The end. It’s not the first time we’ve lost a pet to that goddamned road, but it’s the first time I was old enough to really understand the meaning of death, and I knew better than to ask whether this asshole bothered to stop either. I made it through the day plenty fine, and David and I even went to the shelter that afternoon, though I knew I didn’t have the heart or the means to replace him.
I should have known it was coming. The entire car ride home, neither of us said a thing to one another. I sat in my seat, my dead-stare aimed somewhere beyond what was visible out the window. I was sinking fast, but I didn’t know what, if anything, I could do about it. It wasn’t just Frodo. There was a heaviness, a tightness in my chest that went beyond my yet diagnosed bronchitis. I felt hollow in ways I didn’t, and still don’t, have words for. And as soon as we got home, I lost it.
For the first time in nearly a year, I felt the overwhelming urge to tear myself open- to bleed all this horrible and poisonous mess inside of me out. I desperately wracked my brain for one of the crisis skills we learned in DBT. I didn’t have any ice cubes handy, but I needed to shock my system all the same. Water. There was something about water, and a dive response. I went into the bathroom, not bothering to turn on the lights or shut the door. I got into the shower, fully dressed, and turned on the water. And sat there.
It was a while before David found me. The lights came on, and I turned my face to hide my shame. Without hesitation, and without a word, he wrapped his arms around me and held me together and I came completely unglued, tears burning hot down my face as I hiccup-sobbed between wounded howls that had no business coming from the throat of anything human. It was hell. But it was just another exorcism of all the horrible darkness that had been plaguing me. And I had made it. I had finally done what I was taught to do, and used my skills.
And I was really looking forward to sharing it all in group today. Because I was proud, and rightfully so. Not to mention I was dying to hear my good friend share the news of her recent engagement with the group. The Universe seems to have had other plans though, because I got an email informing me that the powers that be have discovered I no longer live in the county where I’m receiving treatment. So I’m not able to attend group again until I schedule and see my new therapist, fill out a slew of paperwork and go through the motions to get authorization to continue obtaining treatment outside my current county. All of which needs to be agreed upon and set in stone before next Wednesday, otherwise I’ll have missed 3 DBT group sessions in a row, and won’t be able to re-attend until January, at which point I’ll have to start the entire program over.
Of course there’s always the option to contact my local community mental health authority to see if they offer a DBT program, but I just got an email from them informing me that I was turned down for the Peer Support Recovery Specialist position I applied for, after basically saying that it was only literally the one thing I felt most passionate about doing in this world and basically my dream career. So there’s that…
I don’t know what to do from here. I don’t know what the best thing to do is. But I know it all feels like way too much to tackle right now, so I’m going to take advantage of this unexpected time off to go search for some D&D dice sets. Then maybe I’ll get that Jet’s Aloha BBQ Chicken pizza I’ve been craving for a week and let David introduce me to Star Wars.
Yeah… Sounds like a plan to me…