The Call

Everything. Deleted. Again.

This time was different. I wasn’t hiding. I just lost my mind. Literally.

Everything was shut down. Everything? Everything.

The safe was open and something told me to write my psych which I’d never done before. I told her I was scared I’d do something to myself and my family, then signed off.

Unexpectedly she called two minutes later, and even more unexpectedly, I answered. She talked me down. Way down. Eerily down.

Fast forward not too much and the problem is solved.

Part of me doesn’t believe it was the problem and the other part does. I didn’t know all of that ‘stuff’ was still inside, just waiting for a chance to head to the bridge.

I’m not perfect at all, not even close, but try to do right most of the time. I think that’s why cheating haunts me. I’m not sure if what I did was entirely wrong. On a high level I know I’m forgiven, and that it’s probably an insult to God that I haven’t figured out how to forgive myself for not knowing what bucket to place my actions in, for not caring at the time that I might have been hurting someone. I’m still not sure I care that I was hurting someone. I was in love and writing it sounds stupid and childish, but even now I’m not sure how that can be wrong. If someone would have said you will still be in love six years later, but without that person in your life at all, I would have laughed in disbelief. But I’m not laughing. I swore many times not to write about this because maybe it feeds into the thoughts and emotions, but it keeps returning to words because it’s still there. So I’m angry. Angrier than I could have imagined. Angry because love just doesn’t go away. It feels like something inside is always dying and I want to blame the world for the darkness because even after blaming myself it’s still there.

The psych discovered I was taking medications that had severe psychological contraindications. I’d gone to the emergency doctor for one thing and another doctor for another, and in the emergency am not sure if I told that doctor what I was taking, and if I didn’t, I’m not sure if I was correct because I was in physical distress. So on about life I go taking both prescriptions and though aware ‘something’ was amiss, I attributed it to the increased stresses of daily life. Doing that means it’s me and that somehow I need to find a way to change perception about what’s happening around me, so the meds didn’t click – they were doing what I needed them to do to function, or so I thought.

I’ve ‘only’ held that gun with bad intention twice. I tried to write the rage out of myself and it didn’t work. In the end it felt worse. It was as if I was trying to prove to myself what a loser I was, and that being a success wasn’t a good thing.

But she called.

I’m not sure if I’d be writing here this very minute if she didn’t. At the end of the call she’d helped to change what I was thinking, and though I still felt awful said no to committing myself to a hospital. When we got off the phone the thoughts before the call returned, and I began to hate her for what I perceived was not caring, and though that sounds contradictory, I’d begun to get mad at the idea that she was ‘just’ covering her ass because I’d put my intentions in writing. I began to get mad that I’d written her in a moment of extreme despair, and then I began to feel embarrassed.

But she called. Again.

It was too hard to admit I wasn’t okay, so I told her I felt better even though my entire body was shaking. She kept talking and I wanted to hang up. I didn’t want anyone trying to convince me it was okay to ask for help. It wasn’t. It wasn’t okay. I could be in that moment no more vulnerable than the email that started the calls. My only admission was that I was genuinely scared of myself and I’ve felt a lot of things, all the things (I thought), but nothing quite like that. There was a silence as I realized she’d asked a question as I was internally screaming at myself for reaching out to her. She asked again. I smiled and told her again I felt better.

When we got off that time I put the gun away. I was too emotionally spent to use it. I’d had time to think about the aftermath, the horror and trauma I’d leave behind. I looked around my room, at what I’d chosen to throw away (or delete), at what I’d tidied up, and at what I’d left as it was. I knew each choice meant something but I was too tired to contemplate the variables. I looked down at my nails and wondered if I should have done them first, so I’d present a little cleaner, then I laughed thinking about how the body empties itself at death, and how funny it was to consider modesty as a precursor.

She called again as I was laughing. Twenty minutes had passed, and I knew in that moment she’d created some kind of remote semi-suicide watch on my behalf. Although I wondered if that was protocol I still felt touched by the gesture. It went on that way for a while until I told her I was going to sleep.

She called the next day. By this time I’d stopped taking all medications and it was sixteen hours later. If the embarrassment was bad before, this time it was heightened by a hundred. I felt the complete opposite of the way I’d felt before pressing send on my email to her. I asked her if I was bipolar or some something similar and it was her turn to laugh. She said she was 99% sure it was the medication based on our history together. I accepted it but still was’t sure myself.

All I knew for sure was that a phone call could make a difference and that God knew what I didn’t, that my worst day wouldn’t be my last.

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