On a softly falling silent shroud of snow

The invigoration and hope of the previous entry didn’t last very long, any more than did the openness of ten years ago.  In fact November 99 after its first few days was dreadful, a fucking horrible month.  At some point, I don’t remember which day exactly – virtually no notes or nascent journal entries came out of November and I stopped doing even morning pages halfway through – I stuck an unloaded gun in my mouth and pulled the trigger.  It sounds somewhat foolish when I recount it now because I knew the gun wasn’t loaded and all I can offer for explanation is I needed to scare myself into taking some action. 

It worked.  By early December I’d gotten back into therapy and started using anti-depressants, a step I’d previously been sure I’d never take, and things started to smooth out a bit.  But it was a pretty bumpy ride getting there and I never want to go through something like that again.  There’s always the fear that I might not stop at faking it next time.

What I remember most from that time is the feeling of being dead inside.  I’ve never had that feeling so strongly, or for such a prolonged period, either before or since and while I knew it would pass – it had to, I was sure – I couldn’t stand living with it hour after hour and day after day.  It wasn’t just an emotional state: I physically felt like my body was a lump of lead, especially inside the torso.  I wasn’t sleeping and barely eating, which of course didn’t help (although on the plus side I wasn’t smoking pot either).  I couldn’t cry or even get angry.  I was just inert. 

I’m customarily a glass-half-empty person, I know that, but this was outright anhedonia.  I knew I should be scared but I couldn’t muster up the feeling for fear either. 

Not until I started playing with the gun.  Everything started falling into place pretty quick after that.  I have a strong survival instinct for someone who casually claims he doesn’t enjoy life very much.

Ten years later things are much better.  Immeasurably so.  Of course, now I don’t have a long-distance girlfriend to talk me down from the worst of what does happen… but for the most part I don’t need one.  I’ve gotten a lot better at not letting myself get that far up the tree in the first place.  Better living through chemicals, as they say, although six years of therapy and eight of sobriety might have something to do with it too.  Just maybe.

That said, my mood lately has been awful, the usual crankiness spilling over into occasional hostility even to those closest to me.  For the first time since I got on Facebook I’ve had to cut the feed from some of my happier friends because I just don’t want to know how happy they are and why.  Resenting them for their general level of satisfaction makes me resent them, period.  I know how foolish this sounds too but then again how can bad feelings seem but foolish when you’re not having them yourself?

I won’t go into the litany of my improper words and actions to friends and strangers alike this last week or so – it’s too embarrassing.  All I’ll say is remember the entry before last when I alleged that in fact I’m not an asshole most of the time?  I think I was trying to convince myself, and maybe a little too hard.

more...