On Depression...

It's never easy beginning a blog post about something that exposes the inner-most dark portions of your own soul, but when it is something that you need to have said because it is your only lifeline to your sanity and the world out there, it becomes important. More so, when you know you have something to say, but don't know how to say it, but know it is important, you just have to start writing with something. And this is that something.

It is a scary feeling not knowing where you are. And that feeling started a couple weeks ago I would estimate. I don't know exactly when because the last time I was vaguely aware of what date it was was the day that I posted notice about my medical leave, which was for my treatment resistant depression, something that runs in my family for several generations. Some have managed to escape its clutches, but I suspect more that they have managed to hide it deep down somewhere in a portion of their lives that cannot be seen by others. They are the fortunate ones.

Then again, waking up in a bed that is not your own, with no recollection of how you ended up there, is rather disconcerting. It the sudden discovery that something happened to you that you did not allow, your body being violated somehow in its slumber as someone moved you, drugged you, and even changed your clothes before putting you in a bed under supervision of someone you have never met, and worse, without your consent. It's how I woke up at some point last weekend. I was in a hospital bed, I had tubes and cuffs on on my arms, a blanket I had never seen before that smelled of antiseptic and laundry detergent. I didn't know how long I slept, I was told I was in and out of it most the weekend and Monday; in fact it was not until yesterday that I began to get a sense of what day of the week it was again. Today is Friday, at the end of June, Tuesday I was supposed to return to work.

I still do not remember what landed me in this prison? Safe space? I am unsure of what it is. Any communication I have made out from here has been with someone next to me, whether it was Gabe or Aedan, or my psychiatrist Liv who has been a godsend, or any number of the members of the nursing staff that have held my phone and scrolled through it for me. I did get the phone out of Gabe's hands once, something about someone saying they wanted us gone, that earned me an injection of something, perhaps Thorazine, perhaps Valium, I am not sure. It wasn't until the next day that I saw Aedan reply to the thread, asking if I wanted a police report filed. I did. Then again, by that point, the rest of it had been kept from me. It is only now that I am allowed my laptop to sit and write this, again with a nurse sitting next to me. That is the nature of the beast, the beast inside my mind telling me to jump off the nearest bridge, or take all my medicines at once for the entire month, even if I know it is only a trick it is playing on me, it still seems more real than anything else.

I am told that the 72-hour hold started on Monday, and that if I objected at any given time that I could file an appeal by contacting a lawyer who would proceed to contact a judge on my behalf. I just wanted to sleep, and did. Even today from the change in medications I still can pass out easily at any given moment, so no, I did not see a reason to argue against staying. Right now, in this room and bed, all is safe with the world, which right now, that world consists of only this room and bed, how convenient it is. Then again, the fact I am here, I am told, is to protect me from that world. I know I still have to emerge into it at some point again, breaking the carefully wound cocoon of safety in place around me, something I am not sure I am ready to do.

Some have told me I am weak. I am not. You try living 33 years with something in your mind daily telling you to end your life. 33 years of bullying from my own brain, extended into my own family in the form of my father and brother, which only made things worse. Perhaps this is a poor-me post, I don't care, it's words I have wanted to talk about publicly for years. I have tried many treatments, some of my own accord such as the combo of cocaine, ecstasy, and vodka which so far has been my favorite but least functional treatment, to rehab, to electroshock therapy (you just sleep through it and feel fuzzy after), and now using esketamine in a clinically-controlled environment. The last one helps the most, it's like rebooting the computer; they give me the dose, I lay back, and aside from being checked on during it, I just nap.

I am vaguely aware of what led up to this. I took the month off to try to pull myself away and down from the self-destructive mindset I was in. I was highly defensive at everything and everyone, but then again, I had also been blamed by everything and everyone for taking a side that I did not take. I was betrayed and it was to a point I could not handle that betrayal anymore. I took the month to get away from it and make a decision, one I needed to make before I was unable to make it. I think I ended up in the unable to make it period. I needed the time and space away to begin to think clearly again, and it did not happen. Instead, I tried to write an apology letter to my ex which resulted in me, in so many words, having a psychotic break. I was told what happened but that I will spare you the details of.

There is more, but even with how transparent I want to be in this, I found it too personal as it did involve other people whose level of privacy is not up to me to decide upon. For now, I am here. As much as I do worry about things for when I do get out, I am being told that in total, it is small compared to what I am dealing with here. I am still angry with people over certain things, but when I am ready to approach that anger, I think that is when things will change. I am not ready yet. For now, I am okay with that.

And this is where I will end this blog. There is more, there is always more, but it seems this one is as hard to end as it began. I know at one point I mentioned that I was scared of fading away. Then that changed to a realization that maybe it wouldn't be that bad. To fade would mean to be no one, which is a good place to start at becoming someone again. During this month I read a story about people fading, and becoming parts of greater art once they did. Perhaps that is me, perhaps I am one of these people fading as well, only my art is already out there to be woven in to.