Morbid, but necessary to talk about. I am coming up on the one-year anniversary of my decision to commit myself to a psychiatric hospital.
I had my suicide plan; I had been on the phone with the great folks at the National Suicide Prevention Hotline, 1–800–273–2755, several times. My mind was made up. What stopped me was thinking about my daughter; what propelled me to the hospital was the absolute certainty that I would suicide. The choice in my brain was there; I wore a weird smile on my face that masked the black hole I was drowning in. My brain felt smooth and glossy; but also, in a way, felt-like. Like all the racing thoughts were moving so fast, I was shutting down.
And I was, in a way. My major depressive disorder had completely enveloped me, and even when I knew I was spiraling, I would convince myself I was fine — by swallowing copious amounts of my favorite liquid anti-depressant, red wine.
In any event, this is probably the most I’ve written in quite a while. I’ve got other shit going on my life that, while not making me depressed, has me running from the keyboard. So this felt good, to talk about it. Thanks, Thin Man.