I Battle Depression
My new car sits mockingly serene in the driveway. Gleaming with the dull sheen of moonlight, the automobile's paint job is a pale silver, without any scratch, or flaw. The bumper is not dented, the AC works, and when I stare at the windshield, I find myself squinting out of old habit to find the long crack down the middle of the glass. It is a bewildering experience to stare out at a windshield that's clear and clean.
In direct contrast to my new car, the memory of my old car lingers on like a ghost. The old car was a 97 Honda, with brakes that squealed like a whipped mule, a gas gage that refused to shut, cracks in the windshield, and far too many miles and memories to make it any further. The old car died its last death on a lonely highway, after nearly killing me in the process. After narrowly avoiding skittering off into the ditch due to faulty, I was forced to face the bitter truth: something had to be done.
Depression, in all its bitter shades, occasionally lavishes upon me a rare perspective.
In the case of my automobile fiasco, it took nearly wrecking on the highway,and almost entering my own grave to finally acknowledge that there was something horrifically wrong.
In the case of my depression, it took a dark morning, in which I clutched a bottle of pills in my shaking hands, and debated swallowing down the entire batch. I remember standing there, with the tears running down my face, the soul-wrenching anguish that had no name, or reason for being there. And I remember staring at that bottle in horror....not necessarily over the fact that I was wanting to die, but that I had lost that sense of revulsion towards killing myself. I know that it's commonly believed that those who commit suicide are plagued by ambiguity over their decision to kill themselves. In my case, it was a sickening reversal of reason. Every time I had contemplated suicide beforehand, I had always recoiled from the idea itself. It was a perverse way of keeping myself alive. When I got to the point that swallowing those pills seemed to be a rational choice, I was ironically scared over the fact that I had lost my fear of that final step.
I can only credit the Almighty for the strength to set the bottle back on the counter, with the promise to myself that I could always swallow them later.
I still keep that bottle on the counter, even though I've flushed the pills down the toilet, if only as a bitter memento to my darkest moment. I wish I could say that there was a dramatic turn around from that moment, that I had magically found enough strength and character to completely turn my life around and be happy. I wish that I could say that I found absolution or deliverance or that I was no longer plagued by depression, ever again.
I wish that I could say that I called a suicide hot line, a clergy member, a friend, or somebody with far more brilliance and wisdom than I had to get through that hellish moment. All I really had was the strength to put the bottle down, but it was enough.
In direct contrast to my new car, the memory of my old car lingers on like a ghost. The old car was a 97 Honda, with brakes that squealed like a whipped mule, a gas gage that refused to shut, cracks in the windshield, and far too many miles and memories to make it any further. The old car died its last death on a lonely highway, after nearly killing me in the process. After narrowly avoiding skittering off into the ditch due to faulty, I was forced to face the bitter truth: something had to be done.
Depression, in all its bitter shades, occasionally lavishes upon me a rare perspective.
In the case of my automobile fiasco, it took nearly wrecking on the highway,and almost entering my own grave to finally acknowledge that there was something horrifically wrong.
In the case of my depression, it took a dark morning, in which I clutched a bottle of pills in my shaking hands, and debated swallowing down the entire batch. I remember standing there, with the tears running down my face, the soul-wrenching anguish that had no name, or reason for being there. And I remember staring at that bottle in horror....not necessarily over the fact that I was wanting to die, but that I had lost that sense of revulsion towards killing myself. I know that it's commonly believed that those who commit suicide are plagued by ambiguity over their decision to kill themselves. In my case, it was a sickening reversal of reason. Every time I had contemplated suicide beforehand, I had always recoiled from the idea itself. It was a perverse way of keeping myself alive. When I got to the point that swallowing those pills seemed to be a rational choice, I was ironically scared over the fact that I had lost my fear of that final step.
I can only credit the Almighty for the strength to set the bottle back on the counter, with the promise to myself that I could always swallow them later.
I still keep that bottle on the counter, even though I've flushed the pills down the toilet, if only as a bitter memento to my darkest moment. I wish I could say that there was a dramatic turn around from that moment, that I had magically found enough strength and character to completely turn my life around and be happy. I wish that I could say that I found absolution or deliverance or that I was no longer plagued by depression, ever again.
I wish that I could say that I called a suicide hot line, a clergy member, a friend, or somebody with far more brilliance and wisdom than I had to get through that hellish moment. All I really had was the strength to put the bottle down, but it was enough.
By:
Sorayeth
Age:
31-35
