pulled from the scrapheap

i have been trying for a considerably long time and find myself unable to explain what precisely i have been doing since February, when you last saw me. physically, the answer is simple: sleeping; cooperating with medication regimes one after another as they are proposed, adjusted and readjusted; eating convenience food; staring lifelessly at whatever useless shit was in front of me, uselessly trying to pick up my work and my life. i lost myself.

i also spent a considerable portion of the time acquiring the means to build an Exit bag. this device is the quickest, most painless way to terminate one's own life. it induces anoxia in seconds via a maskful of nitrogen. there is no pain, only a deep breath in and a gentle sleep. you can't be revived. i had the components prepared and to be honest, my plan for much of that missing time was to kill myself, as it has been before. this time i was far better informed and equipped. i had all the necessary equipment to give my emptied mind a final, irrevocable state of peace.

i desperately wanted that peace. Suboxone does not give the kind of solace morphine does, and it had long since stopped doing fuck all for either kind of pain in my system. my University work was circling the drain, depression and procrastination hovering over it like vultures ready to finish the job. my financial situation was as dire as always, and this summer i could find no research jobs, not to mention the fact that i was still meant to be working on Thistledown full time. that led to Muad-Dib working 8-6 at a shitty phone unlocking shop, for employers who "borrowed" most of his salary, just to pay my rent and get me food to eat. he is living with me unofficially, but he has another place to go to, and he sacrificed his entire summer and all of its earnings for me. you can imagine this did not help the guilt.

i feel like i should explain that more: i carry a lot of guilt around. you saw what i did to my parents, as carelessly as i do everything else; i might be good at H+ but i am also pretty damn good at fucking people over without thinking. i've done it before, i don't even know i'm doing it half the time. coupled with the worst depressive episode i've ever experienced, i had set a date and my life was tabled to end on the third of July, 2011. from around April i'd been experiencing what they call an "intrusive thought" - it's time it's time it's time, strings and strings of the same little fucking messages everywhere. in dreams and in daydreams, scribbled in doodles on my planner, i'd even notice it spelling itself out in paraeidolic patterns on my ceiling or in the patterns of clouds and leaves. it's time it's time it's time it's time it's time. it would insert itself into the little "subtitles" i see in my mind's eye when people talk to me, into lines of my novel when i tried to reread it. i knew the messages were right, was the worst thing.

i realise i am making myself sound even more insane. my consultant psychiatrist says i am sane, but damaged; potayto, potahto. the third of July came around and my mum called, planning a visit for me to go down to England on my birthday. i realised they would fly her up here tomorrow when someone had to identify my body, or they would make Muad-Dib do it. i put the phone down and cried for hours until he got home. he told me in detail how he thought he would react to my suicide. that made me bawl more. we talked and talked until i promised him i would not do it.

the intrusive thoughts are common in extreme depressive episodes, according to Dr. D. they're almost gone. but i'm trying really hard not to sound like an emo kid while still telling the truth: my mind broke. i had the instrument of a calm quiet death up in my attic, i had my will and cadaver donation there, i had instructions to sell all my things to cover my bank overdraft. my roommate was gone for the summer and would never see my corpse. i convinced myself i was going to a blissful oblivious abyss of nothing where i couldn't hurt or disappoint or betray anyone ever again. i wasn't capable of anything for a fuck of a long time after i realised i couldn't give myself even that.

to boot, mental illnesses bring on physical ones. in one way or another i haven't been well for a very long time. that impacted everything to an irritating degree, but luckily is documented by enough doctors and psychiatrists that the University Registry will be satisfied of what happened.

so, consider me that shell pulled barely living from the cybernetic junkyard, half a torso, no limbs and a lolling bald head. my real name is fitting for that picture, after all. the core of me is alive, but the rest is damaged, and it has taken me so long just to be able to communicate with anyone without lying about how fine i am or just shitting bricks for no reason.

i am on the bench, fixing myself bit by bit with gomi. i'll need help before i am a working person again. but i will get there, and i will keep talking about it for a while as i do; should you not want to read this, as i would expect (recovery stories are not often very exciting save for the author) - check back in a few months. i will heal. it might not be fast. you have likely outstripped me tenfold.

thankyou all for your supportive comments, in the meantime. i saw them but was too fucked up to respond. i hope you understand, but equally, i'll get it if you don't. i will try to answer some emails tomorrow.

carpe corporem.

L


edited for stupid typos.