Saturday.
I open my right eye. That is the only one that will respond. First thing that falls into my vision? A near empty quart of Jack Daniels on my kitchen counter. What the fuck happened? I roll over and my stomach turns, as if someone drove a knife into it. Down into my bowels. I curl up into a fetal mess, my head is still swimming, I feel nauseous. I roll out of bed, grab a roll of toilet tissue and stagger, still drunk, through the hallway of my building to the bathroom and suffer from the Hershey's Squirts.
I stagger back, my stomach still in knots and climb into bed. No sooner does my head come to rest am I unconscious. I awake hours later, dizzy, numb, having to use the bathroom again. This was Saturday. I could not face the day at all. Not at all. No sooner after I use the bathroom did I return to bed and to sleep. By late Saturday evening I could drink tea. But it was not helping me focus or think. I was seasick, still queasy and dizzy. So I did the next best thing. I finished the bottle of Jack Daniels.
Suddenly I had an appetite, my stomach stopped churning, the headaches went away, my vision cleared. I got behind the computer, wrote a few necessary emails, and then ate and crawled into bed. Tomorrow would be another day.
Another day of misery. Sunday was a repeat of Saturday, just less severe. Shit. I stayed in bed, watching television on my computer, keeping my head low. All day. Until near the evening my doorbell rang. Wha? Who's knocking on my door? I stood and dressed and opened the door to Dr. A. There he stood, short, curly haired, smiling. I gratefully let him in and confessed my sins . He came, stood in the center of my room, pleased to see that I was sober. I was pleased to be sober before him. I was back on my NALTREXONE, so he was happy to hear about that. We discussed my meds and I told him that I might go back on the LAMICTAL. I will think about it. I know it deals with my bi-polar behavior, but I do believe that THEY are the reason why I have it. Without them, I can, over time, learn how to deal with my own emotions. They are little more than a crutch.
Dr. A leaves. I return to the computer, watching all kinds of shit, until the doorbell rings again. Dr. A? No...Igor. He stands on the other side of my door with this stupid grin on his face, looking at me. I am instantly annoyed. What's Up Igor? "Have you cut them yet?" What? "Have you cut the people off the internet yet? I want to download a movie" I look at him incredulously. No, I haven't cut anyone. Forget it. So he looks at me, blinking. "You're seriously not going to...." Go home Igor. "Because...." Go home Igor. "You want to go get something to eat?"Go home Igor. I close the door on him. I am stunned by this guy. Never a day that I talk to him does he come up with something selfish. He's amazing.
Monday I was invited to a birthday party. Super. I spend the entire day in bed and near the evening I get up, take a shower and a shave and go for some money to buy drinks at the party. I don't find it. $200.00. A lot of money for a hobo. I go through my wallet, crawl on the floor, look through all of my pockets, search my hiding spots, then I do it again. Somehow, somewhere, I lost $200, either in my room or outside. Probably during my drunken stupor. Shit! A kings ransom, GONE! I am pissed. I sit in the middle of my room, in the dark, brooding. Time passes, I am pissed. I am upset, I am lost. Now I see what kind of damage drinking has done to me...well, going on a drunken tear. Hellified fun at the time, but horrendous recovery. I am not pleased and fall into a state of depression, retrospection, regret.
I stay like this for Monday, not moving, not thinking, not doing anything but lying in a vegetative state. Alone, silent, dark. I want this. I want to be cast adrift, don't I? What is wrong with me? Do people get this way normally? No, they feel depressed and sad, but not this bad, not for this long. This is a long, dark corridor, where you don't want to walk down. It's a sinister path. To stand still is to be miserable, but to venture forth holds no promise. Shit. How the fuck did I get here?
I blame myself for this shit. Drinking this severely upsets the delicate balance of the chemicals in my brain. When this is done over a period of time, it takes time to recover. To get past the drinking blues. It was brought on by me, it has to be dealt with by me. I'm not crying, I'm not bitching, I'm trying to make it through. That's my plan. I'm a big boy. I chose to fuck myself up for an entire week, I therefore have to deal with the incapacitation for the following week. It's just the suicidal thoughts that get me down. I hate suicide. I think it sucks. I avoid the thought the second it pops into my mind. I'm going to make it through to the other side sooner or later. This too will pass.
One day runs into another, and then another. I do nothing but rot. I am sick. Something is wrong, but it's hard to snap out of it. It's very hard. Yet there is a core inside of me that struggles on. It pushes aside the suicidal feelings, and motivates me to eat, to urinate, to watch TV on the computer. To continue to survive. The Medulla oblongata of my makeup. It will not allow me to give up, to give in. I deal with this shit. I deal with the entire thing.
I look at my computer daily and the desire to write does not move or stir in me. There is no need. There is only one desire. To wake up tomorrow.
That's my plan for today.
To wake up tomorrow.
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2010/01/suicidal-ideation.html
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