Emptiness and Isolation Will Kill Me

Jul 1, 2012

Except the bird has wings, if he choses to employ them…

 

THIS POST IS NOT A CRY FOR HELP, JUST A COMMENTARY ON THE THINGS THAT HAPPEN BEFORE THAT LAST BREATH.

I just tried to take my life. My husband could tell I was desperate and had followed me upstairs, and I was screaming at him to get out, to leave me alone. “But I love you so much, please don’t do this.” I had the bottle of tricyclics in my hand and I got to the furthest reaches of my bed and he tried to get close by I kept kicking him and this was effective enough to get the entire bottle into my mouth. I already had the bottle of water in my hand but every time I tried to take a sip he batted my arm away. My 17 year old daughter came in the room and started to cry and after screaming at her 50x to leave my room she walked out. It was enough for me to spit the pills into my hand and toss what was left – 19 pills – into a box of tissues. Now my bed is covered with the red of the pills, water and an unseemly pile of semi-melted pharmaceutical powder.

I managed to preserve 19 of them, and have another 30 in another bottle. But he doesn’t know that – I told him I had THREE more bottles and that he didn’t know where to find them. I will have another 30 coming in about 2 weeks, supposedly it will only take 8 pills to kill me based on bodyweight, but I like to be extra sure. In them meantime, 2 hours later my tongue is still numb and I am thinking of taking the 50 at bedtime, when he won’t notice that I’m asleep.

Earlier in the day I took my older daughters to the mall to buy clothes, spent more than $300, they got bathing suits too. But when I got home I let myself just collapse into this burgeoning depression – so much for the lithium – I always have a placebo effect going when I start new meds. And so much for it curbing suicidal thoughts. I went to my bedroom and cried and cried and cried. I got up to go downstairs to collect my rabbit art dolls but my husband came into the room at that moment and tried to talk me out of my hysteria. It worked briefly.

I feel like I am being beaten to death by something invisible and the psychic pain is unbearable. I wish I WAS being beaten to death – I’d be out of my misery. Although this will kill me, I just have to make the decision. Which I had.

My 16 year old daughter came into my room shortly after my husband left and insisted we go to the beach. I told her I couldn’t I’d just taken 4mg of clonapin. She said she’d drive. I said I couldn’t, not in this state. She continued to hound me and finally I said “I want to die right now, can you please show some respect?” Her response was this: “OK, well I don’t think you give a shit about any of your kids.  You only leave the house when YOU want to.” Which, aside from being hurtful, is inaccurate. I told her to shut the fuck up. That’s what set me off. I went downstairs, told my husband what she had said to me and noted that I couldn’t fucking take it anymore, probably starting to get hysterical again. That must have been what had him follow me upstairs.

And I can’t take it any more. Every drug they give me fails and I sink lower and lower into a pit where there is no one else, not so much as a centipede. And at this time there are no obvious footholds with which to climb out. All I see is mental starvation, emotional torture and a sense of abject loneliness and isolation which are absolutely resistant to ANYTHING and ANYONE. There is nothing good, and I can’t feel or see anything through this Iron Maiden that I’ve been living in for so long that even my nerve endings could give a fuck.

Crippling isolation

It’s 8pm here. He will be with the kids downstairs until 9:30. I feel so empty that I don’t care about anything except to not be. I’d prefer not to kill myself – I’d rather I had never been born, but I was. And so I have to do something about it. I think 2000mg will do the trick. As long as I don’t have convulsions, M will just think I’m asleep if he checks on me. Then he’ll climb in and sleep through the night. I feel like I should fight this, but I don’t want to anymore – it always comes back with a vengeance, like it’s pissed off that I checked into the hospital or tried a new pharma to kill it. It doesn’t want to be killed. It wants to kill me.

A much better emptiness than mine. Except I’ll be cremated, so no options for a skull decorated in flowers…