October 13, 2019
I spend all my time fighting the depression. It’s exhausting.
I came somewhat close to formulating a firm plan last night. One involved just hooking up with a Tinder dude and hoping he’d kill me. The chances of that, contrary to what the media portrays, are very slim. The “worst” that can happen, in my extensive experience, is consensual anal sex. Blah.
Then I thought about driving my mother’s car off the road. Or off the third floor of the casino parking garage. But I figured the steel wires would hold me and I’d only be in trouble for being stupid. Again.
I had the panic attack of all panic attacks yesterday, in the Safeway parking lot. Some of Paisley’s family witnessed it. Crying, hyperventilating, no reason. Mom had to drive home.
I’ve continued to have panic attacks, out of nowhere. Mom frantically asking me what’s wrong, guessing at things that might have happened. “No, no, no,” I say. Trying to calm. Downing some Klonopin. Then more. Then more. She gets anxious I get anxious she gets anxious I get anxious. She doesn’t realize it, being deaf, she can’t hear her own breathing. She’s in the habit of sucking in her breath at the simplest things. Facebook videos mostly, or watching a movie with the sound off. Even the news. She talks to herself. But I do that too…
Yesterday she was looking for something, I can’t even remember what, and she was breathing rapidly and unevenly. I came to help her, then asked her to please take a lorazepam. She shook and cried. Then I shook and cried. Then she took a pill. Then I popped a few more Klonopin. I’d had about six. I thought I’d be dead tired but I wasn’t. I went to bed at 11 and now it’s 3 am and I’m up, can’t sleep, drinking club soda.
I see my shrink in the morning. I don’t want to. I don’t want to tell him what I’ve been doing. Gambling and drinking. Lying to my mom. I don’t want to tell him that I take too many Klonopin. I worry a lot they’ll take away my Klonopin.
One shrink did, in Louisville. But I was doing OK on the buspirone, so it wasn’t so bad. Plus I was drinking a lot more, so it wasn’t so bad. Clearly, however, I don’t think I can manage my anxiety on my own. Without tools, it’s nuthouse here we come. And that solves nothing. The hospital is a short term solution for preventing a person from killing themself. A mini reprieve. Boom. End of story. Convince me otherwise.
If an average stay is three to seven days, what can really be accomplished? You may come to Jesus, but chances are you won’t. And Jesus doesn’t take away your problems. That’s nonsense. He just walks beside, holds your hand, while you weather the storm, primarily by your own will, by your own tenacious dogged perseverance.