SHun

Depression

For as far back as I can remember, there hasn't been a time in my life when I was happy. I mean truly content with myself and/or my surroundings. I started seeing shrinks at an early age. Oddly enough, it was not for depression. Yet.
​An occasion when I was around five years old that also oddly enough, was in the beginning of the sexual exploitation I was newly introduced to lead to a series of traumatic episodes. The girls who lived across the street were older and high. It's weird that I can't remember how old, their names, or even how we came to be friends. I don't remember a lot of things anymore. But this is one of those traumatic experiences that survives my depression. Sort of. Actually, it's just surface as I drive through my past trying to figure out why am the way I am., I was at my neighbor's on Market St. in Brockton and they decided to watch a movie. So they asked me if I liked scary movies. I say "Yeah! Who doesn't?!" I would've said anything just to stay and hang out with them. What the hell, with anybody. Anyway, what did I know? I was only five. How scary could a movie be? What was a scary movie? Then they asked me if I was allowed to watch rated X movies. Rated X? "What the hell is that?" I think to myself, "sure" I say again. Wait, they babysat me. That's how I knew them. That makes sense. Anyway, after convincing them I was old enough and man enough to watch this grown-up movie they threw it in the VCR. The movie was "Carrie" (RESEARCH IS THAT RIGHT MOVIE). I don't recall how much of the movie I ended up watching, but at some point while Carrie was screaming, her face turned pale white and I lost it. The panic and fear rushed through my body and I got up and practically ran out of the house. Don't let them see me cry don't let them see me cry don't let them see me cry I thought. I said something ridiculous like I think I heard my mom calling me and they were asking me if I was okay. And that's how the nightmares began. In the middle of the night I would wake up screaming and crying from replaying the images from that movie. The high pitch, piercing shriek as a face turned white as a ghost. My mother would come rushing in to wake me from my torturous slumber and I would be afraid and unable to go back to sleep. I don't remember how often this happens or how long it went on before my mother sought help for me, but this is how I got introduced to shrinks. Little did I know some 30 years later, Carrie's white face would be nothing in comparison to Jayson's, which was a week ago today I found his dead body in the bathroom. Jayson was 6'1". Jayson hung himself with his belt from a 5 foot hook. Do the math on that. Disturbing. I'm now seeing a shrink for this occasion currently. More on that later.
​We really didn't have the extra money for Dairy Queen some weeks, so a visit to a psychologist however many times a month I went was put a huge financial stain on my mom I'm sure. Even at such an early age I was more of a repression than I was refreshing.
Compound that with the divorce of my parents a year or so earlier, in which events pertaining to the divorce I didn't understand then but take on new definitions now. Lastly, throw in that little molestation bonus for shits and giggles and what the fuck was I supposed to do? Ask yourself how you would have dealt with that? Depression? Yeah. No shit. At the time, depression seemed to be the least of my worries though. But, I had no idea I how it would create so much destruction and how these were probably sparks the caused the explosion of torment and despair in my head.
Back then I had no idea what a psychologist was for really. He asked questions and I for some reason answered usually as vague as possible. Where or why this innate defense mechanism I have no idea. The guy was nice. I wasn't scared of him. We played tic TAC toe after our session. I guess it wasn't him... It was me. Opening up to disclose my true feelings or emotions never seemed like a viable option. It usually never is. Too bad I couldn't have been guarded and defensive when I was getting raped by my aunt's husband. And it's not because I liked it! If I liked it I wouldn't be this fucked up now would I? Would I? I wouldn't right? Because usually, I put up a pretty good fight.
Sometimes, to fight is to outsmart. Out strategize. Play the game a little faster, a little smarter, and a little harder than your opponent or expects you to. Somehow I put it together that I could get the results I wanted with the responses I provided. This has worked with most people most of the time in most situations.
There was this one time I showed up for a consultation with a new doctor on the Milford Green. I was about 15 or something. Maybe a little younger or a little older because my memory has been severely damaged. More on the reasons on that later. But I am 95% my mother was driving us in her Grand Am as she cried and hit the steering wheel asking either me or talking to herself "What is wrong with you?" I couldn't tell from her tone between her tears and her anger. Anyway, for some reason or another I remember a sense of urgency. My mother was visibly upset, I think, on the way to the appointment. She tried so hard. I see that now. I wish I could see that then. Fuck, my life could have been so much better. Whatever the reason for the visit to the doctor or for whatever symptoms I was displaying, I'm sure it was my fault. It always is. After we arrived and the introductions were made, my mother stepped out so me and the doc could. I don't remember what it was but I either got a bad vibe from the guy or I didn't want to be there in general. As the usual questions came one after another, attempting to establish a foundation for him to use as leverage in his prying interrogation. Questions like: Am I having problems?, Am I angry or depressed?, Am I hearing voices in my head?, Do I feel like hurting myself?, Do I feel like hurting anybody else? No. No. No. No. And No. He asks me why I was there. I said I didn't know. I said I felt fine. He asked me if I wanted to be there. I told him that I didn't feel that I was having many complications in my life and I wasn't sure why my mother thought I needed therapy. 15 minutes into the interview the doctor calls my mother in. The three of us sit down and he tells my mother he has no idea why I was there and nothing appears to be causing me any distress. He tells her I'm fine. My mother tried to explain to him what she was dealing with me at that time. The smoking, the drinking, the sex, the staying out all hours, and my rapidly declining disposition. She was losing control of me, or it was pretty much gone. So if I wasn't willing to open up and be honest with the doctor there was nothing he could do to help me. There was nothing nobody could do. There never was. There never will be. I'm beyond help. 30 minutes after we get there, we were driving back home. She was pissed. I'm such a bastard. Why couldn't I just let him help me? What do I even need help with? Fuck, there is just too much. I'm not worth it.
​Depression takes me to some dark and dangerous places. It also influences other dangerous traits and emotions. Self-hatred. Self-destruction. Self-mutilation. Self-loathing. Self-defeating., Self-deprivation (?), self-tormenting, self-doubting, self-abusing, self-medicating, selfish, isolation, angry, violent, suicidal, unmanageable, uncontrollable, self-esteem less, self-respect less, unmotivated, unproductive, negative, pessimistic, untrusting, untrustworthy, dishonest, I compassionate, resentful, uncaring, unworthy, spiteful, despising, manipulative, hopeless, useless man-child... And I believe most of this stems from my depression. Or causes it. Wow, there's some insight from captain freakin' obvious. Whatever. My life is fucked. I'm fucked.
​My mother is a psychiatric nurse and she has an understanding of my condition. She has wanted me to get on psychiatric medication for a long time. I always refused. I didn't need medication. I didn't want medication. I was medicating myself. If I was going to take something to help me feel better, it was going to be what I wanted to take. I was my own doctor. I had everything figured out. Plus, this is the way I felt for as long back as I could remember. Doesn't everyone feel like this? Don't they? No.? Well fuck me then, right? Sadly, what most see is I need serious mental health intervention is normalcy for me. It's baseline.
Eventually I gave into my mother's annoying persistence and agreed to go back to a psychiatrist and try some legitimately prescribed medication. Huh, maybe that's where I get that from. After all I've put her through over the years this was the least I could do. More on that later. At 28 years old I went back to a shrink for a prescription to treat symptoms from severe depression and mood stabilization. And while I'm here let me get a little something for myself to. "What can I do when my anxiety becomes overwhelming doc?"
"Xanax? I've heard of that sure."
"Sure I'll try it... If you think it will help. (Playing the helpless victim)"
I'm such an asshole. Besides the Xanax he put me on Seroquel and Effexor. Great, anti-psychotic medications. S.S.R.I's, S.R.I.'s, mood stabilizers, chemical stabilizers, trial and error, side effects more aggravating than the initial symptoms, fuck this. At least I got some Xanax. These are two of the milder cocktails they've tried with me to solve all my problems. I tried it. It didn't work. It doesn't work. It's not the solution for me I guess. I kept with it for nearly 6 months. The Xanax lasted me a week I think. More on that later. Wait maybe these medications are working. I did notice subtle changes. I think. Maybe my attitude was slightly improved? Fuck I don't know. If it was working, I stopped taking my meds. Maybe I was fixed, cured, and stable. Almost immediately after I stopped taking the meds, I was back to my old self. My miserable, depressed, pathetic self. I'm back to reality, back to normalcy. Normalcy, at least, in my fucked up, jaded, and undesirable point of view. I should really get back on my medication. And not the Xanax. As good as that sounds. Why haven't I? It doesn't work. Or did it. Shit, shit, shit I hate my life.
Though the thoughts are there almost daily, there have been a few times that stand out where I was moments away from ending my life. And there have been a few more times since I last wrote this to add to the list. More on that later. Considering the fact that I have consumed epic proportions of drugs and alcohol on a habitual basis with what I believe was one sole purpose and disturbing manner. I wanted to die, period. To this day I still have a difficult time watching "Leaving Las Vegas". Even now, just thinking of how I can describe what that movie does to me leaves me in a state of alexithymia. I'm speechless. There are no words for the emotion. I can't describe it. You wouldn't understand. Moving on, to this day when I hear "Suicidal Thoughts" by Notorious B.I.G. alexithymia.
When I did, fuck it
I wanna go to hell
Cuz I'm a piece of shit
It ain't hard to fuckin tell
Out of nowhere the lyrics will start melodically repeating in my head until they start screaming in there.
I bet my mother wishes
She had a fuckin abortion
Random. Unprovoked. Unprompted.
First was the time on the motorcycle. I was on my yellow Katana so this had to be in 2002. I was hammered. Definitely drunk. Probably on other substances too. I snapped. I freakin' lost it. I dropped of Megan at her house after her appointment to have her abortion (I begged her to keep my baby). I went straight home. I flew there. Practically parked my mother's car on the giant elm tree next to the driveway. I pulled my bike out and took off down the street. I wasn't heading in any specific direction. I had no destination I was departing for. Fast. Angry. Drive. I headed straight for the highway. Fast. Running stop signs and splitting lanes between cars with no reservation and wreck less abandon. As I turned left onto the on ramp at exit 42 for the 95 South I slammed the throttle back full tilt. 90, 100, 110... The white hashed lines separating the driving lanes became a solid, dancing white marker as the head spinning speed created the illusion on the pavement through my windscreen as I split lanes. The needle wound around the speedo as the engine whined louder and louder. 120, 130, 140... I can't even say traffic looked like it was standing still because cars looked more like they were plummeting off the end of the earth as they fell out of sight behind me. 150, 155, 160... Then silence. Over the sounds of the honking horns I thought I heard, the roar of the engine that was near deafening, the piercing whine from the pressure of the wind beating against my eardrums (CT does not have a helmet law), suddenly fell a complete silence. As I passed exit 39 and the Post Mall I could feel my forearms throbbing and my knuckles were white as chalk from the death grip in which I held the handlebars so intensely. Tears streamed down my face burning my eyes and causing my goggles to glaze over with fog from the condensation. My vision was blinded. And I didn't let off the throttle an inch. I gripped it harder and tried to squeeze every last drop of speed and power out of the 600 c.c. motor. And I couldn't see anything on the other side of my goggles. Then, for the first time in what was probably 15 years at the time, I prayed. But not for protection or salvation. "God, take my life. [sob]. Let me hit something, [sob]. Anything [sob]. I don't want to live no more. [sob] TAKE ME NOW!" After a few more miles, which only last another 60-90 seconds probably because at 150 M.P.H. an object can travel 2.5 miles every 60 seconds, I pulled the goggles up over my forehead so I could see what was in front of me. My grip on the throttle loosened up as it snapped back to its static position. As the bike's speed and my senses returned to a more stable and manageable reality I navigated over to the right and got off the highway at exit 32 around Stratford. I took two quick left turns and I was on the on ramp again merging onto 95 north. Heading straight back to whatever I was just trying to escape from at a risk that easily could've taken my life instantly and irreversibly. And as I returned I drove as smoothly and as calmly as the day I took my license test, obeying all posted speed limits, laws, and regulations on the road to the best of my ability. Like nothing happened. Because it didn't. Because I'm still fucking here. The episode had passed. The mania had temporarily subsided. I had failed, again.
One may see this as an affirmation. That god has a bigger and brighter plan for me. Bullshit. I see this is an affliction, because, "If this is the life, you can put me in the coffin now."
Another episode that occurred approximately the following year, or the preceding year, fuck I don't remember when it was. It's not the when that matters though. I was dating Monica, or maybe I was still with Megan. It was around 2002 or the beginning of 2003. Fuck, I don't remember. It's not the who that matters. It's not the when that matters either. Fuck, nothing matters does it? Anyway, I was hammered. On what I don't remember. The what doesn't matter either. Nothing does remember? I can't remember what triggered this anger and reaction. Those were not good years for me from my point of view. None of them have been. From any point of view actually. Anyway, Seth G. Haley elementary school is at end of my street about 1/4 of the way. It is the school where I went to 6th grade when we moved to Connecticut. From what I can piece together, I left my house after some altercation. With who? I have no idea. About what? Even less of an idea. But whatever it was I wanted to die over it. I grabbed a steak knife from the kitchen drawer on my way out the door. I can't tell you if I walked, drove, or ran to the end of the street. The next thing I fully remember is being at the back of the school, scaling the walls onto the roof of the gymnasium. When I got to the top I went to the ledge and stood some 30-40 feet above the ground. Half of my feet were hanging over the ledge and I'm standing there with the blade of a steak knife pressed against my wrist. I was waiting, willing, begging for a gust of wind to take me away. To give me that final nudge. That last but of encouragement, assistance, escape. To take me out of this world. To play Dr. Kevorkian to my wish and desire. I stood there sobbing and screaming hysterically. With my feet hanging halfway of the roof of an elementary school gymnasium. With a steak knife leaving an impression on my wrist. Waiting. Wishing. Willing. And nothing happened... Again. Then I started thinking. Rationally. This wasn't high enough. If I fell, with my luck, I wouldn't die. Some bones would break. Maybe damage some organs. I'd surely be sent to a psychiatric hospital..: again. But I was not high enough where death was certain. Which would lead to more anger. Which would validate the hate I have for myself that much more. FUCK! I climbed down and walked home like it was just another day at school. Like no significant event just occurred. Like being alive was the greatest gift on earth. Like I was gonna live forever. Which I probably will, out of spite or punishment or even amusement for those who revel in my misfortune and misery. I failed again. I always do. I should be used to it by now. But it doesn't make it easier to swallow. Easier to live with. Easier to accept.
The next time I found a more certain location. Whether if it was the time I was briefly living in California in 2002 or if it was when I returned in 2004. Time has eluded all rational concepts. Hell, I don't even know if I really was living out here in 2002. I just don't remember or recall. Anyway, I was hammered. I left my father's condo after a fight. What it was over? Probably about my drinking, but I don't remember the details. The details aren't important. I was stumbling around Rancho Santa Margarita and I was done. This was it. I was standing on the overpass at Santa Margarita Parkway and the toll road. The chain link fence that extended over the concrete barrier (which is probably a safe assumption to say it's a safety barrier or suicide deterrent), was the last thing in my way. The only thing left in my way. The white stars of headlights rushed past me. My hands gripped the fence so hard it left imprints on my oxygen less hands which were turning a ghostly white. A color I would come to remember so vividly for all the wrong reasons. Fuck Jayson, u left a much bigger impression on me dead than alive. Let me find out that's you following me. I see you bro. More on that later. Anyway, there were so many cars on the highway that night. Too many. This is gonna be messy. This is gonna be ugly. Those people were innocent that night. They didn't deserve to have a body fall out of the sky, onto the hood of their car, cosmetically damaging and possibly mentally scarring (I know how it mentally scarred me (thanks Jayson)), their otherwise happy little lives. But why did they deserve to be happy and not me? Fuck 'em. Wait, here's a break in the traffic. Here's my chance. No. Dammit why won't they stop?!
Too many cars.
Major pileup.
News choppers.
Fuck I don't want to be on the news!
I'm not seeking attention.
I'm not crying for help.
Why is I angled like that at the top?
How do I get over this fence?
LET ME DIE!
FUCK!
There's too many cars.
I get out my cell phone and call my father.
Two minutes later he's prying my hands off the chain link and escorting me into the passenger side of his Tahoe. He's shaking his head and sighing uncompassionately. I'm shaking and sobbing uncontrollably. I'm pathetic.
Another feeble attempt occurred sometime in October 2008. I was not hammered, but I was not clear either. I just finished a three-week binge and had subsequently lost everything. Again. My mother had flown into town and I had just checked into an inpatient rehab program. Again. More on that later. We were working for my uncle at a cheer competition doing photography. Business was fairly slow and I was having all kinds of suicidal thoughts racing and ruminating through my mind. I was detoxing and hit rock bottom. Again (of course it wasn't actually rock bottom because every time I think things can't get any worst I always find a way to prove myself wrong). Everything was destroyed at that time though. My depression was reaching whole new levels of psychosis. The words for my last letter kept forming the sentences that would leave my mark on this world and release the burden on my family. I said to myself, "I need paper, I have to write this down." The letter was short and simple. I had my chance to say what I have wanted to say for 28 years. I had my chance to prove what I needed to prove for 28 years. And I said very little, and probably even less that had significance. And I had proved nothing except one thing. I was a failure. This is it. Two more days until my mother leaves. When she's gone, so am I. I will finish what I have kept a burning desire inside of me for so many years. This is the only option I have left. The staff at the rehabilitation facility I resided in did nightly inspections after curfew. As soon I'm clear from inspection I'm going to put my iPod on, take a bottle of vodka, and sit in my bathtub with a razor blade. No mess to clean up. No gross disfiguration of my body for the funeral viewing. Two more days. Just survive for two more days and I can end this. The razors were in my bathroom. The liquor store was across the street. Sometime within those 48 hours a conversation I had with my father a few years earlier replays in my head like a broken record. "Suicide is a coward's way out." He said this as we sat in his truck, in the parking lot of my sister's school, as we waited for her final bell to ring. His cell phone rang and he answered. My aunt or my grandma was on the other line. Probably my aunt based on the content of the conversation. His first response after the greeting was, "He did?" A few "uh-huh's" and "okay's" later he hangs up the phone. I knew. Before he said anything I knew. Hell, I think I even knew before he answered the phone, because even when the phone rang there was an anticipation and sensation within me that felt that this was not going to be an ordinary phone call. Which was weird because I had no reason to suspect anything out of the ordinary, which makes this premonition even more disturbing. And I'm even freaked out a little more now because of what I've been experiencing recently in the wake of Jayson's suicide. Shit, let me process this a little more. More on that later. I waited for his confirmation of my premonition, just in case I was wrong. "Ray committed suicide last night". I wasn't wrong. Bastard. A day before his indictment on sex crimes involving children. He overdosed on ketamine. I've used ketamine for pleasure. He didn't deserve to die euphorically. He deserved to die tortuously for what he did to those innocent children. For what he did to all of us. For what he did to me. "Suicide is a coward's way out," my father says. In those 48 hours I waited for my mother to leave I heard that sentence I. My head countless times. I am not a coward. But I already wrote out my suicide note. I am not a coward. But I'm miserable in this life. But I am not a coward. But I have nothing to live for. But I am not a coward. I wonder if he knows that haphazard comment contributed to my inability to follow through on what seemed like the last and best option I could come to the conclusion of. No, he doesn't understand how grave my condition is. Nobody does.
Death does not scare me. Believe me, it would be much easier for me to rest in peace than to live in anguish. Each time before I pulled the proverbial trigger, I thought about my family. My two younger sisters, who I practically and near literally never talk to anymore. My mother and father who have not necessarily given up hope, but have come to acceptance of how little they should actually expect out of me as to stop the cycle of repetition of hope and disappointment. My grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, anybody who might care. Which would probably be nobody at all. What would they think? What would they say? Everyone knows I'm a complete fuck up. Would my demise leave them for better or worse? After the initial shock of my departure, if it would even be very shocking at all, would there be serenity in my no longer being a liability? Would it hurt them or help them or scar them for years to come? Would they blame themselves? Would I barely be remembered or talked about or thought about in the weeks or even days following my fate?
I have caused my family enough distress. More than I was or would ever would be worth. I am not a coward. Although that sentence failed to save me in the attempts since some 8 or 9 years later. The fact that I am still alive has nothing to do with me not being a coward. The fact that I am still alive is because I am a failure. I can't even kill myself. Figures, of all this things I wish I could do with my life, the one that is probably the easiest to attain is the one I can't complete. Does that make sense? I don't know, it does in my head. I am a failure. Living is my punishment. Life is my curse.