On the morning of January 1st, 2015, while others were rousing from their drunken slumbers and preparing for celebratory brunches, I was laying in bed next to my sleeping husband and dog, thinking about suicide.
Which method would be the easiest and least painful? Where should I do it? How could I cause the least amount of cleanup for others? What would happen to my dog after I was gone? These are just a few of the questions I contemplate in moments like this, and these moments are fairly common. Don't be alarmed, I'm not suicidal. Not at the moment, anyway. For the past few years, I'm not sure a day has gone by that I haven't thought about suicide. Most days it's just a fleeting thought, but there are days - when I'm having an especially hard time - that I fixate on it. Sometimes it's just for a few minutes, sometimes it's for hours. There's something almost meditative about planning every detail of my own death. Apparently, this kind of rumination is common among depressed and bipolar people. Even those that are not seriously considering suicide report moments of fixating on how they would do it. Twisted, isn't it? Maybe, but it gets me through some rough times. It's like knowing that there's a way out of the suffering provides some sort of demented comfort. It's a last resort, but it's there, waiting to take me away when I just can't handle it anymore.
So, what is the it that I can't handle? Overall, my life is pretty great. I love my husband, dog, household, friends, and all of the projects and activities in which I'm involved. But I think that's what makes my depression so hard to swallow. How can I have all of these wonderful things in my life and
still feel such despair? How can I be surrounded so many fantastic people who love me and still feel so lonely? Not having the answers to these questions sends me even further down into my hole, which leads to even more despair and loneliness. It's a cycle that's difficult to stop, and sometimes just fantasizing about a permanent end to it all is the only comfort I can find.
I guess my New Year's Eve was harder on me than I'd realized, since I had to pull out my twisted mental security blanket the next morning. I didn't have huge expectations for the evening. I stopped putting much importance on the holiday years ago. But it is one of those nights when everyone gets together to celebrate, so it's a great opportunity to party with friends I don't see as often. I thought that if I could just get myself out there, celebrating and partying, the rest would fall into place. I'd stop feeling so lonely. The cloud would clear up. The feeling that gravity was heavier than normal would go away. Maybe I'd crack a real smile a few times. Hell, maybe I'd even laugh.
Okay, so I guess I did have huge expectations. Or, at the very least, hope. I hoped that the celebratory mood of the evening would infect me and let me out of my foggy prison for just one night. I spent the entire day preparing, trying to combat my antisocial mood with projects like bedazzling a new dress and experimenting with new hairstyles and colors. I hoped that putting together a fun look would motivate me to go out and show it off, despite the overwhelming desire to just stay home and wallow in my bad mood. I know it's a little superficial, but it's worked in the past. I think that having projects to focus on also helped take my mind off of my mood. By the time 8pm rolled around, I was all dressed up and ready to take on the night. I'd even caught myself giggling a few times about the tremendous trail of glitter my ridiculously sparkly hair project had created throughout the house. I still felt the depressive weight on my shoulders, but it was a vast improvement over the way I'd been feeling for the past few days.
My optimism took a hit the moment I walked into a bar to meet up with the group of friends with whom I'd hoped to be spending the evening. You'd think it would be pretty difficult to feel gloomy around a rambunctious marching band with whom I've shared a thousand happy moments, but never underestimate the power of depression. I was standing just a few feet away as they played their hearts out for a cheerfully surprised group of bar patrons, and yet I felt as if I was watching the scene from behind a window. I could see the merriment going on in front of me, but I couldn't touch it. I couldn't be a part of it. Even after they'd finished playing, and people started coming over to greet me with hugs and other expressions of affection, I continued to feel disconnected. I offered up forced hugs and fake smiles with the hope that if I played the part of the cheerful partygoer on the outside, I would soon feel it on the inside. Unfortunately, that didn't happen. As I traveled from bar to bar to party to party with my husband and friends, I continued to feel isolated. When people talked to me, it sounded muffled, as if we really were trying to hold a conversation with that figurative window between us. It's funny how strongly the emotional symptoms of depression can affect the physical senses. Well, maybe it's not exactly funny. I sure wasn't laughing.
By the time we reached the Big Party, our final destination for the night, I'd had enough. I stood around a burn barrel trying to stay engaged in conversations with people who seemed genuinely happy to see me, but it was no use. I had to admit defeat. I left without saying goodbye to a single person. I just needed to get out of there, away from all of these happy people. I was worn out. I needed to curl up on the couch with my dog and a bag of weed and just zone out to some bad TV. And that's exactly what I did, with the welcome addition of my loving husband, a nice bottle of real champagne, and a bag of Sour Cream and Onion potato chips. It wasn't how I'd hoped my night would end up but it was comforting, and it felt like it was exactly what I'd needed all along.
So, why did I wake up the next morning contemplating suicide? I guess a part of me was still disappointed that I hadn't been able to break out of my bad mood to enjoy the previous night's celebrations. Instead of appreciating the relaxing, mellow end to my evening, I focused on my inability to connect with my friends and enjoy a night of euphoric partying. However demented, my coping mechanism must have provided just enough comfort to put me on the slow climb out of the fog. I've still got a long way to go before I'm out of my current funk, but this morning I woke up thinking about spending the day cleaning glitter off my floor and how I could get rid of this hangover, so I guess that's an improvement.
