Catharsis.

It seems almost childish to be posting something here – from my perspective anyway. I’ve always associated some sort of guilt with sharing.  I’ve never been great at articulating my feelings well, and I’ve never found much comfort in expressing them, regardless. I’m not exactly sure what I’m even searching for by registering here. Closure? Comfort in confiding in countless, faceless others? Furthermore, I’m not even certain that, after posting this, I’ll even bother to return and read the comments – again, I’m uncertain as to my feelings regarding this. Fear, perhaps? Or maybe it seems unnecessary, as my only goal was, ultimately, expressing this anonymously. In spite of this uncertainty, in spite of this anxiety and fear, I feel it’s time to unload – enough with this preface. I apologize if this won’t be in chronological order – bear with me.

For you to understand this little rant, or confession – this catharsis – perhaps it would be beneficial to know a little more about who I am. Throughout my adolescence I was, and maintained to be, rather introverted. This isn’t to say I didn’t have friendships, or that I was a particular “loner” or cut-and-paste depressed teenager. Just quiet in my demeanor, preferring books to chatting in classrooms, a night under the stars instead of out at house parties doing things I didn’t like to impress those who didn’t give a shit about me anyway. And I was comfortable in this, to a certain degree. The friendships I did form are still strong, the people I met then I still love dearly. However, they were all older, and so from a young age I was drawn into a world that interested me far more than high school. The city life was incredibly alluring, and meeting beautiful people who loved literature and music and film and art as much as I did was refreshing. The alcohol was nice, as well, and I’ve always felt more comfortable connecting with others when it’s in my system (as most do, who am I kidding?). In short, I was a pretty average adolescent with interests and goals reaching far ahead of my peers.

There is much one doesn’t know just by looking, however.

I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder shortly before my eighteenth birthday – a conclusion that came, to me, at least, as no surprise. Not only does my family have a history of this, but, as the name suggests, I was exceptionally, cripplingly depressed. Rewinding a bit, on March third, my brother’s twenty-forth birthday, we found him face down in the basement, cold and silent. He had passed away from an accidental heroin overdose, after being clean for a little over a year. As one can imagine, there are innumerable emotions resulting from this – grief, of course, anger, frustration, guilt, abandonment.

To write off my depression on this event, while justifiable, would simply not be true – as much as I’d almost like it to be. These feelings of overwhelming misery and emptiness, of being lost, or, perhaps, homesick of a place, a person that does not exist have been persisting since I was knee high. However, what I will attest to is that it is this event that proved to be a tipping point. The way I coped with this event was not foreign to me – it was a practiced routine, only amplified by grief. The bottle of vodka I kept under my bed a constant source of relief, the cigarettes an additional comfort, the knife I burrowed into my stubborn skin a blessing. I abused sex, I abused booze, I abused myself – all in the name of my misery – and so I was sent to counseling.

Fast-forward a few months and we arrive here, to my small apartment across the street from the campus I now attend. It’s a beautiful city – it really is – and I appreciate it most at night when I sojourn to the rooftop for a smoke, admiring the lights and the voices and the rush of cars and drunks passing beneath my feet. But, plagued with this illness, I find the classically stressful events of a college freshman infinitely more stressful. Between the move, finding a new job and learning to handle my money with rent and bills, and adapting to an entirely new type of schooling – as well as still struggling with the tragic passing of my older brother – , I was entirely overwhelmed. My significant other of three and a half years, who lived about a fifteen minute walk from my apartment, was ever so comforting and supportive – often staying up long nights with me as I unloaded my concerns about school, about life, about whatever was troubling me at the time. He was a blessing, I will say that much. However, as time wore on, this all-encompassing darkness again crept upon me. My motivation was killed, as sleep became my only priority. Fifteen, sixteen hours swept up in my dreams and I was still exhausted throughout the day. Booze was a constant companion – when I had the money for it – and I budgeted my cash for cigarettes more than I did for groceries. Entering my second semester, I was progressively becoming colder, more distant, more apathetic. And no one was the victim of this more than my dear boyfriend. The thought of death seemed to be an ever present figure in my day to day activity. I wrote my loved-ones notes, just in case, in a fit of sorrow, I decided to make my final exit.

My dear boyfriend was overwhelmed by this. Although we would have the occasional pleasant day (or night), all too often these feelings of happiness were short lived. When we slept at one another’s apartments, I was often distant in bed – often rejecting the idea of sex entirely and curling away from his touch. He came to me with his feelings of loss in regard to our relationship, telling me that he felt as though I took him for granted, and that he tried so hard, and why couldn’t I just show him that I loved him? What had changed? He said there was no love in our relationship anymore. That we were empty. And although he was still in love with me, he had to break it off – our relationship had made him emotionally unavailable, or so he said. But he wanted to be here for me, and he still cared, and he still wanted to be my companion. My friend.

I wasn’t angry. I’m still not angry. The love I had for him when I was happier is still present, and I can’t hate him for leaving when he did – what did I expect, after all. In the state I’m in, I’m not a particularly good girlfriend – hell, I’m not a particularly good person. And this behavior made it impossible for us to thrive. We’ve been in contact still, though, and last Monday we had a long, tiring phone conversation. To be fair, it was my fault for bringing our relationship into question. We discussed the idea of us ever getting back together, to which my ex-boyfriend responded with a despondent “I don’t know, maybe” and told me that he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be ready to forgive me for the pain my behavior had caused him, or if he’d ever be able to heal from it. He told me he wanted me to move on. He told me he wanted me to be happy, and that I needed to focus on myself for a while.

All reasonable responses, I know. I’d like to reiterate that I’m not angry, that I don’t blame him. However, at this point I was crying – an act I rarely do, I’m a fairly stoic human being, despite my emotional instability – as he was trying to tell me that I’d be okay someday, and that he hoped I’d find someone who would make me happy, etc. I was so overwhelmed – this was the man I’d been with for years, the hardest years of my life, and the only person I’d been able to be entirely vulnerable with. I loved him – love him still – and this idea that suddenly I was alone was terrifying. Although I never expected my boyfriend to “fix” any of my problems, I had always understood that I was stronger with him there, that I stayed around, often enough, because of him. Because I was hopeful. With these ideas extinguished, I felt empty and small – smaller than I’ve ever been – and so, so alone. And then, suddenly, my crying ceased, the fog cleared, and there was absolute clarity. It’s a strange thing to describe, this feeling, as it’s nothing I’d ever experienced prior (and something I quite honestly hope to never experience again). I said, “okay. alright. goodbye s___”. I hung up the phone. And by what I can only describe as a raw, instinctual drive I grabbed the bottle of sleeping pills on my end table, poured myself a tall glass of water, and tossed 3/4 the bottle down the hatch.

It was only when I wandered into my kitchen to get another glass of water for the remaining quarter of pills that my roommate caught me. At this point in time, I was convulsing, which my roommate mistook as shivering, and she ushered me into her bedroom and tossed a blanket around my shoulders. With the smear of makeup down my cheeks betraying my fragile position, she, with good intent, flooded me with a barrage of questions. As I proceeded to try and answer some, she became aware that my shivering refused to cease, and became suddenly concerned – “did you take those pills?”. Without waiting to hear my answer, she rushed into my bedroom to uncover my crime, and, panicked, threatened to call for an ambulance, but settled for having me puke them up.

I think it’s a common misconception to believe that sleeping pills are a painless way to go – books and films convince us that it’s nothing more than drifting off into a dreamless sleep. I can assure you, it’s anything but.

I was violently ill multiple times that night. But my wonderful roommate, my wonderful friend, stayed by my side the entire time, rubbing my back or talking to me. I was never afraid throughout the duration of the overdose, not for myself, anyway, until my roommate began to cry and say “what would I do without you c____? You’re my best friend. What would I do without you?”. I’ve never been naive enough to think I was never loved or cared about, but seeing someone so absolutely afraid of your absence is chilling, sobering. Dizzy and wobbling about, I hugged her and apologized over, and over, and over again. She responded by making sure I stayed awake, by letting me puke. And when the sleeping pills began to affect my short-term memory – as sleeping pills do – and I couldn’t form sentences and forgot what she or I was saying as we said it, she smiled sympathetically and struggled to understand with me.

When she finally felt I was alright enough to go to sleep, she stopped into my bedroom ever hour to wake me up and make sure I was still breathing.
I know that, had she not been there, I very well might not be here, now, to write this.

I’m still unsure as to how I feel about the entire event. In some ways I felt guilty – either because I attempted the act, or because I couldn’t succeed. Other times I’ve felt happy, relieved that I didn’t succeed. Sometimes I feel angry that I let my roommate persuade me into her bedroom, or that it took me two glasses of water for me to down the entire bottle of pills. Mostly, it was a sobering realization that if I was to ever change this pattern of plunging into overwhelming sadness, I needed to seek help once more.

And so I have, with my first appointment with my new therapist set this upcoming Tuesday. Not because I want my boyfriend back, or I want to get my friends and family off my back, or because of any other reason than this:

I want to feel happy.

And so I will try.
Even if it kills me.

-C.