The Drain

I can’t believe I have to breathe. Who’s genius idea was that? Asshole. Who asked you anyway? As if things weren’t hard enough without adding breathing into the mix. Fuck you. Were you confusing me with someone else perhaps? Someone who can do that whole in-out-in-out thing without feeling paralyzed? Was that it? No? You’re a prick.

I think I used to be able to do that. I’m not really sure. If I was, it was so long ago, I can no longer remember. Was that why you did it? Because I used to be able? There was a before? I just don’t remember? It’s too hard. I don’t live anymore. I exist. Big difference. You have to see the difference. Do you not? Maybe if you lived you would. How would I know? Because I do see the difference.

The biggest cruelty of anxiety, depression, suicidality, self-harm urges, addiction, and mental illness in general, is the cruelty of the cruelty. The double layer of it. There is the issue of the issues themselves, and then there is the difficulty of the difficulties. in dealing with them. The misunderstanding of others. The job losses that go with it. The relentless pain. The loss of relationships. And on and on. It is relentless.

While I was writing that last piece I almost forgot to remember to feel panicky. I was breathing without feeling it. Wow! And now I am trying to remember feeling like that before. To compare the feeling I nearly had just now to anything I have ever had. To prove there was a before. That I really was, at some point in my life, able to breathe like other people. I cannot make the connection. I push the idea to the side. I presume at some point in my childhood I was able to, but that was likely thirty years ago. Much too long ago to recall. Well – certainly too long to pull the sensation of breath to mind. It is unlikely ever will be.

It is likely that I am never going to be able to breathe without the use of a substance, or a knife. And that is a large part of why those two things continue to remain alluring to me. And in tandem, even more so. It doesn’t matter which thought is the chicken and which is the egg. The alcohol should usually go first though in action. It loosens me up, makes me completely chill, and makes the cutting all the more glorious. It is wonderful. If I’m too drunk though, I might forget. That is no good. I must remember every moment. I hate not remembering. I want to be able to relive it all. Sick – huh? Maybe, maybe not. It’s been a whole seven and a half months since I have sliced myself up. It was also the worst time. I don’t remember it all. I’m actually really surprised I have lasted this long. I wonder if I can keep going. This last week has been the hardest week since then.

It doesn’t really make sense does it? That I have been okay for seven months… No… Not okay… Just not as bad (again) as now… And now I want to go back all those months… Undo all that good. In fact I don’t think there has been good. Not that much anyway. I think I’ve been circling the drain, just in a wider circle perhaps. I haven’t felt as bad as now. In general. I have had ups and downs. I have been in the hospital four times since then. The desperation was mostly missing though.

Tomorrow I have an appointment with a psychologist from the Social Security Administration to determine whether I am eligible for Long Term Disability. The letter said I have to bring all my prescription medications. That didn’t seem like a big deal until today. My husband has been keeping them in a safe since December. I still managed to O.D. three times: once in January; and twice in March. I have had minimal thoughts of O.D.ing recently until today. I messaged my doctor yesterday to mention the thoughts about cutting. It wasn’t an urgent message. I don’t know if I want him to call tonight or not. When I message him over the weekend, he sometimes calls on Monday evening, sometimes on Tuesday evening. If he calls tonight, I’ll have to tell him about the O.D. thoughts. In fact, I know well, I should call him now and talk to him about it. He probably would want me in right away, or he would talk to my husband and have him have me take one of each pill with me tomorrow. I know I should tell my husband tonight. He’s going to be mad. Obviously more mad if I don’t tell him and O.D. tomorrow!

This illness is so fucked up. It doesn’t make any sense. I have no idea why I want to take a bunch of pills. I have no idea what I want to gain from it. I don’t think it’s death. It’s not a cry for help, because I’m getting help. Everyone already knows I’m a fuck up. It’s not attention, because I’m already getting plenty of that. If I fuck up any more, I lose my psych. I don’t want that to happen. I seriously don’t understand my deal. I know I want to zone out. The cutting is also in the back, or maybe front, of my mind. My three pills of choice are

• Seroquel – to knock me out. Fatal in high doses
• Metoprolol – lowers heart rate. Makes me sleepy. Fatal in high doses
• Coumadin – thins blood. Very dangerous in not too large quantities. Even small quantities can cause profuse bleeding. Cutting and this drug are not such a good mix.

These are three of my fourteen daily medications. I have another blood thinning medication I have to inject if my blood is too thick. I could inject a few of them to instantly thin my blood.

So yeah. Many of my other meds can be fatal if misused, and given my stellar recent history in terms of decision making and not overdosing and shit, it’s probably best if my husband keeps these for a while longer. Also my psych is kind of making sure it happens. Okay. Speaking about him again… I’m going to write down what I need to say to him if and when he calls. Otherwise I’ll forget and I can only get through this shit if I say what needs to be say. Peace out. I can kind of breathe somewhat ish. Wonder how long that will last.