Is There Anybody out There?
Dull pencil and some sheets of paper grasped in my fist, I sat on the dirty, cold, cluttered floor in the basement. My chosen room of my own. Although rendered insensible with copious amounts of rum, nicotine, hydrochlorot, lamictal, alprazalam, metaprolol, hydrocodone and effexor I felt an intense need to write. Completely wasted, I thought my flesh was glowing in the dark room, pupils close to fixed and dilated. Yet I needed to put words on paper. I have always written, especially when times were tough. I drowsily thought I could somehow make some sense out of how I had ended up with this crippling anxiety, depression, panic and pain.
I wrote until I eventually passed out on the floor. When I woke later and painfully got up, I grabbed what I had written, stuffed it somewhere and tentatively began a new day. Later I read over what I had written and Through the mostly incomprehensible crap a sort of theme emerged. Why? Why? What has happened to me? Is there anyone else that feels the way I do? Can I get better? Does anyone enter this black cave of sorrow and emerge on the other side back into the light?
I have so much to be happy about. A beautiful husband, who is loving, funny, my trusted best friend and he's a fantastic dad. Amazing children who are bright, caring and a true joy. Dear and Wonderful friends. I have been able to put together a peaceful life, so different from the life I knew as a child. Yet I have become a scared, anxious, panic and guilt ridden sad shadow of my former self. What has happened? I have moments of joy, moments of intense love, hope, warmth and security. And sometimes I laugh so hard my face hurts. At times, I'm a movie star in my own mind. Despite this profound, unremitting, earth-shattering sadness I can parade around like the happy-go-lucky center of the universe. I'm the funniest, craziest, (crazy like, "That bitch will do anything!") prettiest, best mom, fulfilled artist....and I think to myself, "Get your shit together girl! There's nothing wrong with you!" But it is becoming extremely clear that something is very, very wrong. It's getting harder to hide. Also the use of an alarming assortment of pharmacology, both prescribed by a doctor and self prescribed is not helping.
When I read through what I had written in the basement that terrible night my first thought was to rip it all up and burn it. As I did with a lifetime of journals, dark poems and maudlin short stories. This is different now. I'm sane enough to know there's an enormous rift between the confident 'movie star' I imagined myself to be (and had been for so long), and the depressed, drugged woman I have become. I'm going to figure this out somehow and I'm going to write about my journey. I know it's important. Important for myself to work through, Important for my family and it might be important for anybody who is out there experiencing this too.