This is going to be quite a sensitive and personal, perhaps even disturbing, post, as the title should indicate. I like responding to comments in a timely manner, but I haven’t done that lately. I’ll get to it when I feel better. Sorry.
I had one of my near-suicidal intense depression attacks yesterday. I’m going to try to tell the psychiatrist about it when I see him tomorrow (unless I chicken out). For now, I’ll try sorting through the trajectory as briefly and impersonally as I can. In public. Which means I probably won’t share everything.
I would say the attack began two weeks ago, though I didn’t know it at the time. I feel like it’s tricked me. Usually it stays around for a week until I feel forced to act on it. Since my mood lasted over a week, I thought it was just a heightened version of my typical melancholy self.
But then I peaked yesterday. In the daytime, I was feeling more anxiety than usual. My jaw has been clenched for over a week, and it was irking me. My neck was also tense and stiff. I decided I needed something to soothe my nerves. I hit on the perfect idea, one that I occasionally pursue: go to the liquor store after work and buy some beer. This is not behavior I normally engage in. I am in no way a frequent consumer of alcohol; I have a beer or a glass of one about once a month.
My anger and depression grew. I could scarcely pay attention to what I was doing. I thought about cutting myself after work. But then I hit on what seemed like such a brilliantly self-destructive idea: I would buy some hard liquor and consume as much of it as I could. This was something I’d never done before, so my brain seized on it as an exciting possibility. I thought that I would drink enough so that I was exceedingly ill and then couldn’t go to work today.
I settled on a 750 mL bottle of rum. I thought about attempting to consume all of its contents, but I didn’t want to die. Some Internet searching and I found that could be lethal, so I settled on drinking merely as much of it as I could.
I skipped dinner and commenced drinking at eight. Firstly, I drank a sizable portion straight. I thought, God, that’s strong, and I wanted to put it away and quit. But then this voice in me taunted me, told me I was a coward if I didn’t finish the contents I’d poured into a cup. I perversely relished the pain as I felt it course through my body. I thought, this is the punishment you deserve, you wretch.
I then decided I should try it when combined with every drink in the kitchen. I didn’t get that far.
In total, I drank about a-fourth to a-third of the bottle, which I would guess is a lot, especially for someone who rarely drinks.
A couple of other things happened, but I’m not going to elaborate on them.
Throughout this whole incident, I dissociated to an extent. I also kept feeling this wooziness in my head.
These weird attacks happen only sporadically, perhaps every three months or so. When these moments happen, I feel like I don’t have control over them. Yet I believe that I do; I just cave in instead of standing my ground. There were several points yesterday when I paused and thought about the idiocy of what I was doing. But if I backed down, I was a coward. Plus, I deserved the punishment.
My mind gets a ludicrous idea and, instead of squashing it like I would as my rational self, I let my brain run with it. My actions feel deliberate, planned, even somewhat precise. There’s a part of me that’s somewhat calm, and there’s another part that laughs derisively as I continue.
This morning, I woke up and threw up. Second part of my plan: have a hangover and be unable to go to work. But I remembered I promised this student I’d be there at a certain time. For one fleeting second, I thought about just going about my day normally, but then I realized that I couldn’t handle going to work quite yet. I called and said I would come in late. Which probably seemed fishy; why wouldn’t I take the whole day off if I were sick?
At work, time ticked by much more slowly than usual. A co-worker asked if I had a cold. Well, I wasn’t sneezing or anything, so I just said, “I don’t know; I just feel sick.” Way to be even more suspicious; I should’ve seized the opportunity for an excuse. I periodically coughed all day to bolster the sickness claim. Actually, I wasn’t faking it; I really did need to cough quite a bit. It still felt disingenuous, though.
For now, I’m just exhausted.