Growing up I was the kid that played laser tag by finding the closest tree to the house and standing behind it hoping with fingers crossed that I would be found right away and could go stand in “jail”. Instead of reveling in the freedom of the shadows, the woods, and the dark I craved the security of a crowd, a fire, or the backyard light.
I don’t enjoy swimming in the ocean. Sure, when I was a kid I’d go to Scarborough Beach to body surf and if I’m drunk at Block Island I’ll jump right in (so I’ve been told) but I can’t get over not being able to see what is below me.
I don’t like outdoor parties where I’m straining to see by the light of a couple of tiki torches or camping where a few pieces of kindling are the only thing separating me from total darkness. I want to be where everything is illuminated.
This isn’t just about a childish fear of the dark (although it’s that too) but about the metaphor of avoiding the unknown. It’s about my needing the security blanket of friends and family and my inability to strike out on my own to find my way through unforeseen adversity. We’ve all seen enough horror movies to know that what shocks and frightens us most is what we don’t see coming, what we can’t anticipate.
I have lived most of my life hidden underneath my security blanket. I am the scared little kid sucking his thumb because I’m afraid the monsters under my bed are going to get me. I am a creature of habit because there is safety in routines. There is security in never taking a chance.
I know the way to break the cycle of misery that I’ve been in since August is to push myself, to face up to my demons, and to venture out into the darkness and see what I’m capable of. It’s time to grow up, to stop imagining the dangers hidden in every shadow, and to push myself into a brave new world to succeed or fail on my own. It’s time to stop making excuses, to stop holding back, to stop waiting for someone to hand it all to me.
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Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about suicide. I don’t need someone to take away my shoelaces or sharp objects, but every night when I’m lying at home wondering if I’ll be able to pay my bills, every morning when I wake up wondering if it’s even worth getting out of bed, my heart starts racing, my mind swirls with worst case scenarios and I can’t help but wondering, ‘Would it just be easier if…’
Last weekend I woke up on Sunday morning, did my usual scan of Twitter, and read about Gary Speed found hanged in his house. I was shook to my core. Possibly it was the cold brutality implied in that particular method of suicide or the shocking randomness of who died, but I felt overwhelmed. I’ve been depressed my whole life (not diagnosed, but I’m not going to get many people who argue otherwise) but I haven’t felt as empty as I have in these past few months since high school. For some reason, I was suddenly afraid of myself and for myself. I kept thinking, “If he could do it…”
(I’ve tried to figure out why Gary Speed hit me so hard. I’ve watched him play and I know it seemed so out of character from the player everyone admired, but his story isn’t any more stunning or tragic than those of Robert Enke, Mike Flanagan, Derek Boogaard, or any of the non-celebrities that I’ve heard about. For whatever reason hearing about Speed pushed me into a funk and made me question myself more for the past two weeks than at any other moment in my life.)
The problem with depression is that it can hit at any moment, it’s triggered by nothing tangible, and it drops a veil around you that, even if you are conscious of it, can be very difficult to lift. There is nothing but loneliness behind that veil no matter how big the crowd surrounding you. Behind the veil lie anger, resentment, sadness, self-pity, and desperation. There are moments when I can see myself being rude, closed off, and unhappy but no matter how much I hate myself for it; I can’t prevent it. The worst part is that I have friends and family who care about me and want to help but no matter how sincere their efforts it only makes me feel more pathetic and useless. I’ve always felt that I can control it despite years worth of examples when I couldn’t. I try to play it off as just sadness about the end of my summer in Phoenix, about the lack of a job or about living at home, but I know that no matter how happy I seem, I am always on edge about when that veil will drop next and when everything that seems positive in my life will be warped by my mind into another failure.
So, I’ve been thinking about suicide a lot lately and I have cried, I have had panic attacks, I have sat and stared at my wall, and I have tried so many times to write about how I feel. I don’t want family, friends, or anyone else who reads my blog (ok so its just family and friends but just in case) to fear for me or to feel bad for me. I’m not writing all of this for pity, just to explain where I’ve been at these past few months and from how far down I’m trying to recover.
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I can remember that moment when I was sitting in my driveway, all my possessions stacked around me so I could barely see the mirrors, and I was looking into a future that seemed settled. I was going to move to Phoenix and everything was going to be new and bright and fantastic.
I remember feeling good about myself and I remember looking into the rearview mirror, smiling, and saying ‘I actually feel really proud.' (Then feeling weird cause I was sitting in the car talking to myself.)
Now my memories of the desert are filled with regret. Not about the relationship that I wanted to be the last of my life, not about the job offer that came the week I left, not about the sunshine and warmth (ok I regret coming back to a New England winter), but I regretted the build-up to that morning when I got in my car and drove off. I regret the parties, the good-byes, and the support I received. I regret it all because I have never before let so many people down. Driving back home was a failure, not just to myself but to all my friends and family who wished me well.
I need to redeem myself, but I don’t know how. I need to succeed not only for myself, but to prove I’m not the loser that my aborted stay in Phoenix made me.
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This is becoming a novel. It’s also apparently a William Faulkner novel since it will make no sense to anyone but the author. I will try to end the novel on a bright note for anyone who may have made it this far.
I appreciate everyone that has been there for me my whole life. I’ve needed every bit of it. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to express my appreciation better, especially these past few months. It’s now time to get moving. I need to get out of my head, to take some chances, and to make my own happiness instead of counting on everyone else to do it for me.
Easier said than done but it’s time to try...
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