Antihistamines don’t kill you… dammit

img_5047I only seem motivated to write in this as an outlet, so I haven’t written in it for awhile.  Things were good! I’ve been traveling around Europe with the spouse and while I had ups and downs, they were mostly ups.

We arrived in Venice and I was feeling down, not for any particular reason.  Usually I feel bad after a series of small things- maybe if I feel patronized, or embarassed, repeatedly during a day. my husband rushed forward ahead of me likes he does when he is stressed, trying to get us to our hotel in the dark. We carried our big heavy packs on our backs up and down the steps of endless small bridges, and I felt the big, heavy stink growing in me. No, not another round of bowel warfare, but the kind of yuck feeling that sticks sludgelike around your head and heart and guts.  As usual, I started slowing down, not wanting to be physically near my husband or anyone else.   He tried to relax for me and apologize, but by then my brain was already operating under different conditions and I grew more hateful.

Thoughts unrelated to the situation took over- how I felt disappointed in marriage, how people like me get raped, how I deserve to be unhappy because there is something wrong with me, I hate my life, I hate rushing after N like a stupid, dependent simpering wife… so on. It grew and grew and grew, like it does.
This is why depression is so scary for me.  My own mind goes psycho and I can’t seem to control it.  It feeds on its own hate and actively searches for things to remember and hate more.  My hate against myself, my body, my choices, my environment. I can’t find the beginning thought and shut it down. The pressure builds until I am feeling ill and ugly and beast-like.   Usually this is the point at which I shut out everyone by getting quiet, finding a private space, and cutting myself or planning/fantasizing about not being alive.  I hate pain but little controlled bits of it make me feel like i opened up a valve and all that steam rushes out.  I think about a lack of existence or just a hermit life where no one can see me like this, or contribute to the bad thoughts, or give me a reason to feel guilty.

That night in Venice however I did not cut myself or daydream.  I didn’t think much, and I didn’t plan anything elaborate and angst-ridden, except one simple thing: I had pills, and I would take them.

This is vastly different than how I usually perform when depressed.  Normally I go into hours-long, tearful mind battles of alternating Bliss, guilt, revenge, and relief that ends up with me furiously scratching my skin, cutting, or giving up and sleeping.

This was a half minute thought, and then it stopped. Which is I guess why I actually did it. I’ve taken pills before. Just before my wedding actually… I knew they were too few but I felt desperate and alone and unhappy, and I wanted to hurt myself.  Writing this, it sounds so insane for a human to desire that.  I don’t know why I felt that way.

I remember getting up some hours later in the night and falling off the toilet. It felt exactly like I was wasted- room spinning, the cold tiles of the floor incredibly big and distinct, my belly roiling.   Then it was better and I went to bed.  It was over.

This time i counted out about 35 pills.  They were a mixed set from my travel medicine bag, some ibuprofen, some aspirin, and about 25 red pills that I couldn’t make out from my faded label.  When N slept, I got up and went to the hotels shared toilet.  Looked in the mirror and since I wasn’t crying (I interpret my tears as reluctance to do a thing), I took them all.  Then all my remaining bits of anger and fury and resentment of being weak slipped out of me, and I just felt sad and a little empty.  A much preferable set of feelings to wanting to gouge your own uterus out and destroy everyone who ever hurt you.

Oh but then I needed justification- go figure- so after some time passed, I snuck into bed and asked a rather pathetic, fishing question, ‘it would be better for both of us if I wasn’t here, right?’ I don’t know why I hoped the answer would be a sad, resigned ‘yes.’ But I actually did hope to trick him into giving me permission.  GAH! PERMISSION TO KILL MYSELF!

He said NO, and then the vortex of swirling, chaotic emotions of guilt and what the hell, relief now? opened my mouth and moved my tongue and I told him what I did.   We spent the next hour or so trying to get me to vomit and dilute the drugs.  It was strange but I felt that this was the first time my husband ever took me, and my suicidal thoughts, seriously. In that particular sense, I wished it wouldn’t end.  He finally believed my unhappiness, And was actively helping me, and I wasn’t alone.

He examined the packages of pills after I described them, and all the poof went out of me when we both realized that those 25 reddish pills were probably antihistamines.  And I remember trying to make a joke about how it’s a good thing I’m not organized.

When he eventually fell asleep, both of us knowing the worst would be a sick belly, I got up and sat on the floor by the bed for a long time.  The crisis was over. No the crisis wasn’t ever even a crisis. And I felt like I had just confirmed to myself that I was too stupid and cowardly to live, and now too stupid and cowardly  to die. And I didn’t have to be taken seriously anymore because I was definitely going to live, because I had dramatically downed pills for drying out a flipping runny nose.

My husband quietly got up while I was down there and wrapped himself around me.

Things have been zombie like and fair weather since then, and I’m trying something new to help myself, a book called Mind over Mood, but I have to get up now and you know, carpe diem. More later.


wait. Update. They were almost all definitely my husband. That’s okay it means he’s reading them yay! Good job! I love you!


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