Somewhere Between Suicide and the Hamptons
There’s never really an in-between with me when it comes to my emotions. I can go for 0-100 real quick at any given moment without warning. You would think that by being on medication my moods would somehow level themselves out. But they don’t. I’ll have periods of stability then I’m back to being on the “crazy” train.
The common advice I’m given is to call my doctor. Yeah, that would make sense and perhaps help. But for some reason, I don’t feel that it would. I haven’t quite got comfortable with the fact that I have to see a professional in order to control my emotional instability. Yet, here I am with a graduate degree in counseling. It probably doesn’t help that my psychiatrist isn’t on the cheap side and my insurance doesn’t cover it. Also, my psychiatrist doesn’t accept insurance. You’re probably reading this and wondering WTF. Well, at the time of my diagnosis, I didn’t have insurance so I was going to have to pay out of pocket regardless. Believe it or not, he was the cheapest one I could find. Or better yet, the only one who listed their price on their site and it seemed reasonable compared to others. I guess I could’ve researched more but at that point, I did not care. Plus, he’s five minutes from my house. A year and new insurance later, I can opt to change doctors if I want to. But I’m already comfortable with this one. I don’t want to go through the pleasantries again.
The last time I seen him was in May of this year. I only went because I needed a refill of my prescription along with some sleeping medication and antidepressants. Taking these combinations of meds made me feel like I was on autopilot. I was always sleepy. My moods were blah. If anything, it just made me worse. But at least I was on autopilot. I needed to be on autopilot.
Then, the meds ran out and I haven’t been quite the same since.
It’s funny how the antidepressants plus my bipolar meds were making me feel a little lower than I should given the combination. But yet, once I stopped the antidepressants, it’s like I’ve spiraled out of control. But you couldn’t tell by just looking at me. You wouldn’t even be able to tell by talking to me either. The fact that my demons were winning day after day was between me, myself, and God.
One moment, I’m dreaming of moving back home to New York and hitting the reset button on my life. I miss home a lot more than usual. My life isn’t there anymore meaning I would have to create a new one. But that could be a good thing. A necessary thing. It would be scary and the only real person I’d have is my best friend but it’s worth it…right? Yeah, it’s expensive. And dirty. And crowded. And every other complaint that people have about the big Apple. But at the end of the day, there’s no place like home. I started making plans to become super rich so I can live comfortably, preferably in the Hamptons. But Jersey would be just fine too.
Then in the next moment, I want to die. Because that’s the world I live in. A reality I didn’t necessarily choose but more so fell into. I’ve contemplated suicide more times than I should have. Though my real world is kept secret, just know that your blues ain’t like mine. Sometimes I feel that medication just simply isn’t enough. How does one combat suicidal thoughts when it’s a symptom of both of your mental illnesses and a side effect of your medication? What prevents me from actually committing the deed is the fact that I have a fear of death. I know we all have to die. That’s the only guarantee out of life. But I don’t know what really happens after that and that is what scares me. But some nights though, I want to risk it all. Some nights, my desires to die outweigh my fears of death. It tortures me in the middle the night. I fall asleep in tears and wake up with wet eyes reciting the Lord’s Prayer to keep these thoughts at bay. But they keep coming back. They keep. coming. back.
What keeps me from overdosing is the fact that I want to see this all through. I want to see if it’s all worth it in the end.