About a year ago, my life changed drastically. The person who had served as a romantic ancillary-surrogate (who helped carry me out of my divorce in that capacity for months) couldn’t take any more of me and left. It was a confusing and severe rejection. It was also the first time in seven years that I was abruptly forced to live entirely on my own—without catering to someone else’s needs, whims, desires, and moods—thrust upon me in the midst of all manner of upheavals.
It so affected me that I started planning my last suicide attempt. I didn’t know who I was. I couldn’t get off the couch. I wouldn’t burden others by reaching out for help. I thought I was done. The only things that stalled the plan were my dogs. I couldn’t die without them having a safe and loving home. So, I texted my sister one day, and made up some cockamamie story about a retirement will that I was receiving through work. I asked if she would be willing to take on the task of caring for Lionel and Coleslaw, should I die unexpectedly. She feigned ignorance, but my sister has known my inner waves and recessions for a long time now. She knew what I was getting at. She pretended to comply; meanwhile, she corralled her husband and called the police to perform a welfare check on my home. When she and the cops showed up, I was deeply embarrassed, and entirely morose. Yet, I was thankful for her quick thinking. At that point, I was scared and lost. I needed someone to help drag me from the keel of life to which I’d found myself stuck. I was lucky she understood the dance of depression, and could spring into action upon her nagging intuition. Because of her resourcefulness, I was able to go back to work, increase the rate of my talk therapy sessions, and switch to a medication that has worked well to elevate my mood.
After my father died this past summer, I realized that writing about my depression as it happens invites a plethora of well-meaning responses and questions that are, ultimately, overwhelming for me. So, I’m glad I gave myself the space of time to process this one without discussing it too much. This year has seen its share of turbulence, but this post is not intended as some massive, proverbial hand slapping my latissimus dorsi for coming out the other end of it. I’m still a massive fuckup in enough ways that would make some humblebrag seem even more ridiculous and arrogant than humblebrags, by nature, already are.
I guess this is just a note of gratitude for the people, like my sister, who love me despite my best efforts to screw it all up. Thanks to her—and Marc and Peter and Lori and Asilia and Steig and Tamara and Bianca and everyone else who is patient enough to listen to and understand the complicated parts of me—I’ve slowed down and learned how to better care for myself. I’m in a safer place now. Cliché alert: change is fucking terrifying, but sometimes it’s necessary. Thanks to all y’all who help to carry my imperfect ass through it. I love you.
