This is Fucking Ecstasy

It comes at night and it can hit me even when I am at my most optimistic.

“I think I am going to bed.” She said.

“Me too. I am actually just finishing up typing the last thing I have to work on tonight and then I think I am going to call it an early night, myself.” This was at eleven at night and by my standards anything before one is an early night.

I finished my typing and immediately fell into a hole. I was literally happy and smiling less than ten minutes ago.

“What do you think you have accomplished? What do you think you have done?”

My face soured and I knew it was going to be one of those nights. The kind of night where my brain keeps telling me I am fucking everything up. Not in some sort of voice other than my own. It’s my own and no one knows how to better kick myself when I am down. All my supports had either gone out for the night, gone to bed, gone on vacation, or were just plain missing in action. I just kept telling myself not to get desperate and not to let things get out of control. Remember what your therapist said.

“Centre yourself. Place one hand on your stomach and the other over your chest. Close your eyes and tilt your head back. Allow you mind to go blan...”

“What have you accomplished?”

“...k. Slowly begin to bl...”

“So fucking proud of yourself, aren’t you? Look at what you have done.”

“...ock out anything that could possibly ha...”

“You are such a fuck up. Pathetic. You should just give up.”

“..rm you. Remind yourself that you are within your own...”

“You only hurt everyone around you. No one reads this shit anyway.”

“...mind. You make the rules and nothing c...”

“Boo-fucking-hoo, my life sucks, I can’t do anything about it. Waaaaaaa.”

“...an harm you there. Then focus on your bre...”

“Remember the shakes you had? Those pills came so close that one time.”

“...athing. Short, slow breaths, focusing on the in...”

“Remember how everyone felt? Oh boy no one will let you forget that one.”

“...haling and then the exhal...”

“You have put everyone you loved through hell.”

“...ing. Just keep repeating this until you are able to focus on no...”

“Look at what you have lost. LOOK AT IT!”

“...thing else other than the sound of your breathing...”

“And here you write all these things and for what? For healing? You are fucking useless.”

“...and how your chest feels as it rises...”

“You aren’t even that good. Resign yourself to your fate and just walk around like the fucking bum you are. You had your chance and you fucked it up.”

“And falls.”

“I fucked it up because of you. Stupid fucking brain.”

I woke up from my mini-meditation on the couch. The thoughts were gone and my head felt a thousand times lighter. The problem is that no matter how hard you silence it, the harder it wants to try and attack again. It will change its tone to the fantastic aspects of life.

“Hey, do you know how cool it would be if you had fifty billion dollars? Like, that is a good amount so that you would never run out. And just think of all the good you could do with it! Everyone would love you again!”

“I’m not falling for that one.”

“You are fucking useless and always will be.”

“Whatever.”

One of the drugs I had suggested for me was Ativan. “This is only to be used in case of an emergency. The way you make it sound you seem to be prone to some pretty crippling anxiety attacks and I want you to have something strong in case you need it. I warn you, though. Ativan is habit forming. You will only get 10 pills and no refills. You should never need more than that. Consider it something that you would break the glass in front of in case of an emergency. If things are crazy enough to break the glass, you probably need it.”

Needless to say, I haven’t been able to either pick up the prescription or even been able to get in touch with her since she left for a family funeral. I could call whoever is standing in for here, but by this point I am already sitting up at 1 in the morning trying to watch “Crank” to better appreciate how shitty it is, but I can’t stop thinking about everything.

All that I have ever done comes flooding over me like tidal waves. Some of the memories are even happy ones, but they only exist at times like these as a form of psychological torture to provide context for further self flagellation. Some are of things that were simple mistakes on my part that I paid dearly for or put someone else through grief. Then, like coming upon the final circle of hell, everything that I have ever done while I am surrounded by hundreds of disappointed faces.

I stop thinking that I am capable of being loved yet that is all that I yearn for. At times like these I pray for some sort of interaction that ultimately never comes. I shut down and begin to almost babble in the event that someone witnesses one of these episodes (which in truth can be staved off by the drugs I can’t fucking afford). Tonight, I took off my sweatshirt, freshly laundered and pleasing to smell, and clutched it as tight as I could as if it were a security blanket.

I got off the couch and shut the movie off; my train of thought was gone. I gripped the sweatshirt tightly and curled up in the foetal position on the part of the floor that was exposed hardwood. The intention was to have the cold wood caressing my arms and shoulders so I could snap back to the now, but it wasn’t happening.

Should I wake anyone up and tell them how I am feeling?

“None of them care, and besides waking them up is just an inconvenience to everyone anyway. It just further proves you are a fuck up.”

I rushed to the computer and turned it back on. I signed onto MSN and no one was online to talk to about anything.

“Because they are either sleeping. Or they are well adjusted and have social lives you dumb fuck.”

I quickly ran through the bookmarks for the number to the 24-Crisis Helpline that I haven’t needed to call in months. I fear this means my body might be getting too used to the depakote already. I tried several times to dial the number, but I am oh so tired that my vision is going blurry and I keep punching in the wrong numbers. I am now on my knees with the phone in hand listening to the busy signal drone on and on and on and on and on.

This isn’t the first time this has happened. Actually, only once after midnight had I ever gotten through and not had a busy signal. The woman I talked to last night said it wasn’t uncommon to not get through. She had her “regulars” that seemed to call every night for everything from suicidal thoughts to just being afraid of the dark.

Every sound in the house from the phone to the ticking clock in the kitchen two rooms away was amplified. As was the voice:

“Typical. Just fucking typical. You can’t catch a break can you? Take a hint. Everyone hates you and could give a fuck less whether you lived or died. Fucking pathetic piece of fucking shit.”

As corny as it sounds I ran upstairs for my childhood teddy bear, Matilda, but not even she could help me now. I had gone too far and the only options left were to act on the impulses to harm myself, give in to a delusional fantasy to make it all go away, or ride it out like a junkie in the first stages of trying to go clean.

It is now almost three and I am exhausted. I have ridden it out yet again. I think I am going to be OK. I know that what I just wrote is sort of tough to read, but I didn’t want to let this feeling go. I wanted everyone to know exactly what it is like. And more importantly, I wanted to put it into words once and for all.