As I sit here in my quiet room, to my quiet self, I feel the void within my heart begin corrode like a transplant patient in need of intensive care. My life is filled with the glory of having too much of everything but not being able to find the right piece to mend my lonely soul.
I have people that love me, they are there. My wife most of all. But recently I feel as if so many are scared of my mental illness, that when it takes over there is no cure but to wait. The truth behind it all though, is that, I myself am scared of me, too…
Not being able to handle one depressive swing to the following mania that ensues is hard enough to carry throughout my day. But, when it turns into full blown panic disorder I am baffled by even my own worst, or greatest, actions! I am screaming, “When will the insanity end?”
"WHEN WILL THE INSANITY END?"
With no possible way to take grips on what I’ve already pushed to the side—my wife’s health included—I know that the only option is to see what the madness will bring...
What this monster inside me pulls out of thin air, like a whiff of a magical wand, is something only the hounds of hell could create and Satan himself is scared of! As I sit in my newly furnished home, the living room begins to creep on me from the torn out wall in the kitchen. It’s there for a more “homely” feel, but all I feel is black with the terror setting in.
I curse His name, and even begin to doubt His existence. When I know that it is He who’s provided for me this entire time. And as I know God has a plan, then I ask you, why hasn’t he taken away the demons inside my head? And when the pain I feel the most, is caused by something I don’t know why it began, where to look for answers, or seek a cure, the resolution for my wickedness is to curse the one true loving Father, named God.
It feels as if the minutes have turned to hours, but the seconds are only what pass on the hour glass hanging from my wall. Going, “Gong! Gong! Gong!” I am now feeling more gone than ever.
“What’s wrong she asks?” while in sheer fear of the man she married. I know I’d never lie a hand on my wife, it’s myself I have to worry about hurting.
“If I had the answer, don’t you think this wouldn’t be happening my dear?” I reply with a wicked grimace you’d only see from Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
It was true though. I had a perpetuation to hurting myself when things inside my mind had gotten rough. But the key issue is that they’ve always been sort of, “Rough.” I tell everyone that I’m doing just fine, while I look to be a positive role model within my work, social life, and family life. While, all the while, I’m scared of myself… the mongrelized beast; walking six foot four, three hundred and twenty pounds of muscle.
You’d say, “Hey! He’s not in bad shape.” Right? But with only a glance from the outside, can you really tell the storm Poseidon has creeping up inside my windy and watery brain, heart, and soul? It is like every morsel of me is consumed with the sickness, but no one can see it! So, how do I tell you I’m hurting without you laughing at me and just giving the slightest wink of, “He’s crazy man!” When in all reality… you’re absolutely right.
So how do I defeat the undefeatable because it cannot be seen? That’s a question that many are asking for reprieve in tonight. But what I do know is that tonight I have been triggered again. And as I battle my mental illness it now becomes one of the biggest triggers I have for my addiction.
Tonight as I sit here contemplating if killing myself would be a better option, the error always occurs to me that when I used to struggle there was one main constant source of masking it all, that without a doubt, worked. But only to an extent. And when I would awake from either a drunken slumber or an obvious needle induced coma, the problems would be right there sitting and staring at me. “Ding! Round 12…”
I’m not sure why it comes back, sometimes still at six years clean and sober. But I know that the more I try to deal with my depravity on my own that the worse it gets.
When everyone around you doesn’t understand, I feel that the moment I need help the most, I’m the most lost. I don’t recommend any sort of treatment, pill, drug, vice, or coping mechanism because what works for you will work differently for me. But, I do know, that when I write my feelings out, for the world to see, I’m a little less alone in this battle and the stigma seems to fade a bit more knowing there is someone out there who is going through exactly what I am going through.
And with all of this being said, the only true barrier to all of us getting better, all of us not hurting anymore, is a means and way for easy and accessible communication when problems like mine, yours, and others, arise.
We may have all of the treatment in the world. Some of it good, and, some of it is bad. But, when I was young I didn’t know that there was treatment so I’ve only been to detox and IOP (Intensive Outpatient). And then when I was old enough to find out what treatment was, I didn’t have the money, or if I did, the other issue was open beds in a proper facility to meet my co-occuring disorders.
So, while many are left out there to “fend for themselves,” how to we cope, together? How do we cope in a world driven by social media and online support groups when all we are caught up in is our own internal suffering? Access to different kinds of care is what the future sees for us. But, I’m here as one of the first advocates to join the bandwagon and say, “What’s next?”
Tonight I struggled with my own demons, in my own way. But maybe next time I won’t be so lucky. It’s not to say I’ll relapse, but it’s to say that we need more digital connection, so that the next time I want to hurt, kill, or abandon myself… I don’t.
Now, I said it once, and I’ll say it again… “What’s next in the types of care we need to see this world make in order to succeed?”
In order to spread global awareness please, I urge you to leave your comment below, not just for my story, but for what you will think comes next in altering our methods of care, because I know that I need it, and many others do too. You are the difference, all we need is a lot of collaboration, so the next person suffering doesn’t say, “Why me?” but instead, “Thank you! It made all the difference.”
It only takes one voice… be it!
Today I am an addict, suffering from mental illness. But I am someone who’s standing up for what he believes in and trying to make care better for everyone. What will your story look like?