It's one of those nights.
One of those "will I make it through tonight" nights.
The Internet is presently flooded with commentary about depression, suicide, mental illness, personal choices, seeds of faith and faithlessness, courage and weakness. Robin Williams, beloved comedian and actor, took his life a few days ago. After 63 years of fighting it. A few people think they have the answers. Many others want to share what those few have to say. I feel like they are trying to analyze me at the same time, and each article I read is a reflection of myself.
I don't know his story. I only know my own, and tonight's a night I don't want to own my story. Tonight's one of those nights.
Ten months ago, I sat in my car in my driveway, engine running, alone. I sat for a long time. The garden hose was just outside, sprawled languidly across the front landscaping bed as if no one cared to tidy it up. That's because no one truly did. I saw myself over and over again, with the hose, the exhaust pipe, a cracked window, and me. I know I sat there for most of an hour. I don't remember how I got out, or even why. I just know somehow, after a time, I didn't do what I saw, and I was inside again.
All the TED Talks in the world are not enough to shake it when depression wraps you in its Ring-Wraith embrace. That kind word someone offered three days ago? Gone by now. What do I need to snap out of it?
I know it is different for everyone. Again, my story, not yours. But I need time and purpose, and time is always there, ticking on so very slowly. The awareness of how slowly it moves does nothing to help, but time itself does function to move me through the stage to another side. Just hang on. But purpose. That's a big one. My marriage failed. It was doomed from the start, but nothing I could do could fix it, not even giving myself up completely into it. It never got better. In my head, I cognitively, intellectually know that the problem is a deep pyschological one that is not my own. But the message of all those years is that it was me--not good enough, not lovable, worthless, a disappointment at best and a disgust at worst. A vessel of wrath--wrath poured into me until I cracked and crumbled. Did I make it out alive? I'm still not sure.
And this is one of those nights.
Just the tiniest thing sparked it in me: a suggestion of a way to participate, be useful, be in camaraderie with others, dangled, then taken away again. It was not by ill will that it was taken again, but practicality, but the stool was kicked from beneath my always-so-precarious foothold and the doom descended like an executioner's hood. Why'd that have to happen? You know the answer: useless; worthless; not lovable; not a part of the camaraderie; not a part of the team. Tolerated at best, but never loved.
The whispers are insidious, and persistent, and what my head knows my heart cannot believe. It became too ingrained.
And this is one of those nights.
One of those "will I make it through tonight" nights.
The Internet is presently flooded with commentary about depression, suicide, mental illness, personal choices, seeds of faith and faithlessness, courage and weakness. Robin Williams, beloved comedian and actor, took his life a few days ago. After 63 years of fighting it. A few people think they have the answers. Many others want to share what those few have to say. I feel like they are trying to analyze me at the same time, and each article I read is a reflection of myself.
I don't know his story. I only know my own, and tonight's a night I don't want to own my story. Tonight's one of those nights.
Ten months ago, I sat in my car in my driveway, engine running, alone. I sat for a long time. The garden hose was just outside, sprawled languidly across the front landscaping bed as if no one cared to tidy it up. That's because no one truly did. I saw myself over and over again, with the hose, the exhaust pipe, a cracked window, and me. I know I sat there for most of an hour. I don't remember how I got out, or even why. I just know somehow, after a time, I didn't do what I saw, and I was inside again.
All the TED Talks in the world are not enough to shake it when depression wraps you in its Ring-Wraith embrace. That kind word someone offered three days ago? Gone by now. What do I need to snap out of it?
I know it is different for everyone. Again, my story, not yours. But I need time and purpose, and time is always there, ticking on so very slowly. The awareness of how slowly it moves does nothing to help, but time itself does function to move me through the stage to another side. Just hang on. But purpose. That's a big one. My marriage failed. It was doomed from the start, but nothing I could do could fix it, not even giving myself up completely into it. It never got better. In my head, I cognitively, intellectually know that the problem is a deep pyschological one that is not my own. But the message of all those years is that it was me--not good enough, not lovable, worthless, a disappointment at best and a disgust at worst. A vessel of wrath--wrath poured into me until I cracked and crumbled. Did I make it out alive? I'm still not sure.
And this is one of those nights.
Just the tiniest thing sparked it in me: a suggestion of a way to participate, be useful, be in camaraderie with others, dangled, then taken away again. It was not by ill will that it was taken again, but practicality, but the stool was kicked from beneath my always-so-precarious foothold and the doom descended like an executioner's hood. Why'd that have to happen? You know the answer: useless; worthless; not lovable; not a part of the camaraderie; not a part of the team. Tolerated at best, but never loved.
The whispers are insidious, and persistent, and what my head knows my heart cannot believe. It became too ingrained.
And this is one of those nights.
Your writing is beautiful as well as heartbreaking, vulnerable, and profound. I get it. One word. One hope. One door shutting and the cascade begins. I hope that today the heart is believing more than the whispers are breaking through. I too can't always predict when I'll be too vulnerable to the life robbing emotions cascading into despair. But I get it.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Elizabeth. Thank you for reading and for commenting. We're in this together.
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