It never ceases to amaze me how:
1) you (meaning I, I use the distancing second person here) can call your shrink and finally admit “I am having strong suicidal ideation, I want to take all my pills, I have to take lots of my benzos in order to get through work, I am afraid to go home and be alone, the only thing that stops me right now is the thought that I will give my father a heart attack” and then have a detailed conversation about all the reasons (and non-reasons, because the fact is, yes, you’ve got a lot going on, but the fact, too, is, you’re also just crazy and it’s grey out and winter) you feel so hopeless and helpless with a fairly low threshold of sobbing and a reasonable level of ability to think about it more clearly once I’ve finally been able to say– yeah. I really want to do it, but I’ve been very, very, carefully rationing myself to just the meds I am supposed to be taking. And then they give you more pills, except this time, magically, you don’t have the urge to take all of them all at once. And there’s a new pill. (You pray.)
2) how long it can take to realize 1).
3) how much of a difference it makes to hear someone say “I would really miss you if you did that,” or “I really wish that you wouldn’t” or “you seem really blue, are you okay?” and the overwhelming, overflowing sadness and joy that provokes at the same time, and how afterward, you berate yourself for withdrawing inside your head and not telling someone or even asking someone to say– I feel really helpless and hopeless and heartbroken and lonely. Would you please tell me I’m worth something? But then you remind yourself not to berate yourself too much because, hey. Sometimes, you’re crazy. And if that’s not okay, well, it’s still okay, if you know what I mean.
4) Oh the demons come, they can subside. (Bon Iver is maybe not the best thing to listen to when you’re feeling nihilistic, except when he is.)