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The Terrible Misadventures of the Clinically Depressed

by an unreliable narrator

By Amariah BrownPublished 2 years ago 15 min read
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This first entry is an attempt to give a sort of baseline for what my depression looks like. In my 29 years I’ve been given many opportunities to describe my depression, and it still isn’t quite right or it still doesn’t quite capture what it's like but I’m going to try. Through stories and thoughts, but first I want to try to describe it with these words. What my depression feels like:

I’m not going to use flowery words and I’m not going to sugar coat it. Depression is like a wet weighted blanket that right when you think you are managing it it gets heavier like more water was dumped on the thing and it just absorbed it all. Depression is a gun to your fucking head that threatens to go off but won’t ever fire. It is so constant that you begin wishing beyond wishing that one day that it just goes off and releases you from the taunts and threats. Imagine knowing and understanding with everything in your being that the thoughts are irrational, but being stuck with them forever. Every single wrong choice you ever made hangs with you keeping you terrified of making these choices for fear of adding to those lists.

Imagine living with someone who hates you and isn’t afraid to let you know it. They remind you that you are worthless and say the worst things you can imagine and you can't escape them because it's you…

Starting is not the hardest part. Contextualizing and planning, continuing, and staying motivated is where I find myself struggling. Now maybe that is just my Nuerodivergent brain firing wildly into space and then shutting down. Like my brain is that TikTok about the guy with a bunch of bullshit ideas but it is also the friend yelling YOU’RE 35! But I digress… that is not what we are here for today. We are here for the true (as true as one can be when telling stories of their lives) stories and adventures of my clinically depressed brain piloting the meat suit that is my body, through space.

Let's start with the most recent of my mental breakdowns and the trouble it has gotten me in: I quit my job. Are you nodding your head like yeah 2021 shit, or maybe you’re saying to yourself, “You did this to yourself !? You drove you here??” And to both of those I say Shut the fuck up I’m telling a story. Anyways, I spent the last 3 years of my life working for a company that gave their employees mental health days, and removed them after less than a month due to misuse. The misuse they alluded to was the one of the many depressed individuals under their employment using a mental health day instead of coming to work and taking it out on their coworkers. This was the type of company that prepared for high turnover by training management staff to see themselves as one team and the employees under them as another...think less than subordinates. Think pizza parties and catered dinners to distract you from them getting rid of monthly bonuses.

That is the type of company I quit, and while that in itself is a story full of seizures and suicide attempts we wont be diving into that today, just giving you context. So I quit a toxic job, I started a business, and then my cousin died. Drug overdose. That shouldn't have been enough but here I am, but it was more complex than that. My (step) maternal grandmother died, cancer 2019. My biological maternal grandmother died, cancer 2020. Then my cousin died, overdose 2021. And I was still alive.

Jeez, should I start somewhere else? No but I should tell you something about myself. I’ve been through 7 cars. The first one was given and taken away by my paternal grandmother, the next one was crashed during a brake check gone right. (I’m convinced the insurance company was like you hit a Jeep? A JEEP?! You’re grounded we are totaling your car give us your keys). That third one...lost during a failed suicide attempt. I rolled a car down a hill, was completely airborne and rolled thrice before crashing into a tree. The fourth one totaled during a head on collision, the fifth and sixth ones were lemons I drove while paying off the fourth. This last one was crashed into and is still being litigated. But the point is I’ve been through 7 cars and one of them I actively used to try to kill myself and I walked away without a scratch quite literally. I attempted to overdose on a bunch of percs and hydrocodone, and was fine aside from the mandatory stay on the stress floor. (Definitely a story for another time, stay tuned). I’ve tried so many times to take my own life then watch people who I love lose the lives they so very much wanted. My Mamaw wanted to live because she had things she wanted to do and to witness, and then she was gone. Then here I was alive, while I very much wanted to die.

Which brings me back to my most recent mental breakdown. Let's get into it! So one of the things that depressed people won’t tell you is that we can go to work. We may not do a good job while there but we can show up. So many of my depressed comrades will tell you that, that compulsion to capitalism is real and while we won’t be functioning and nearly every other part of life can be a mess, we can go to work. Think of those times you drive home and don't recall any of the drive… That is what functioning with depression is like. But then I quit my job and the only requirement for me to wake up was if I felt like it that day. I never could have fathomed how the loss of the schedule, that routine would have impacted my brain and my life. So the tentative routine I established for myself began to fall away because what small business owners don't tell you is that you don't always get paid on time and you don't always get paid at all, but you can't get that time back, You have to eat the loss, and I was stuffed. I began to feel the horrific weight of failure creeping in, followed closely by bills and defeat. Now that wasn’t all that was happening (the personal shit will be another story) that led to my decision to end my life once and for all.

Something about the depressed brain that they don't tell you is the wild ride of rationale. Long story short my beautiful depressed brain convinced itself that while you cant control the fucked up shit around you, you can control living. My brain convinced itself that every choice you make is wrong, make the correct choice for yourself, make a choice for yourself this time. I won’t get too graphic but rest assured, as I'm obviously sharing this story with you, I was unsuccessful.

That Time on the stress floor part 1

So many times I wish I could just say that I was physically abused because people understand that shit. But emotional abuse and sexual abuse those dont leave visable scars. They leave you looking normal and well adjusted on the outside. But I digress. Let's jump to my first stop on this journey where I share too much information with strangers on the internet. This week's story is all about my first trip to the stress center.

Let me set the stage for you. I was a junior in college at a PWI surrounded by fake fucks masquerading as adults pretending to have it all under control. Meanwhile I’m riding around campus on a razor scooter in a onesie because I can. The juxtaposition of the two is a common site on college campuses and no one batted an eye aside from the occasional tweets about the kid in the Finn onesie who has it all figured out. What can I say? Anyways this particular day was a light class day , 4 classes back to back and a quick 3 hour shift at the cafe in the dorm. And other than my appendix debating whether or not it should burst there was nothing major to account for physically. But emotionally … I was recovering from being SA’ed by my best friend, dealing with depression, feelings of worthlessness, hopelessness, trying so hard to find something worth living for. And that is when my beautiful depressed brain had a brilliant idea. So brilliant I felt a rush. My heart beating wildly with anticipation of a solution. The idea had me jumping up to collect the army of prescription pain medications, prescribed for aforementioned appendix issues. Percocet, Valium, Vicodin, and a lesser dose of hydrocodone. My brilliant idea lined up in front of me offering a solution. 60 pills and a swig of some fruit flavored vodka offered to turn off all the pain.

(That was 6 years ago. I now have a better understanding of how drugs work. I am now aware that because I had been on a pain management regime I had developed a slight tolerance combined with the fact that I didn't have enough of any one specific drug to fully overdose)

I must have been a sight to see though. My roommate found me laid out in the hallway vomiting semi-conscious and completely outta my mind. “Bro, chill. I’m fine...I think I had too much.” Things moved pretty quickly after that. My memories are fragmented shards reflecting moments as I faded in and out of consciousness. “What's your name? Do you know where you are?” questions from the paramedic as they strap me to a gurney. “Fuck. Where’s your phone? What did you do? How many did you fucking take?” That was my roommate most reasonably freaking out at seeing empty pill bottles and a bottle of vodka on our living room table. The rest of the ride was what you would expect. Arms tied down to stop me from removing the IV they placed...and vomit. Because apparently my body didn’t agree with my brain’s beautiful Idea.

It would be 2 days for me to gain full consciousness. The doctor said that it was to be expected when you take the amount of Valium I did. I woke up groggy and discombobulated with one of those machines that checks your heart rate and an IV attached to my left arm. My first thought: Fuck me I’m alive. My next thought: bathroom. I was attempting to sit up when the nurse walked into the room to assist. I would later find out that I was in a room being monitored, literally being watched constantly for the last 48 hours. The nurse, who will from here on out be referred to as red shirt, helped me stand which thank fuck because my knees nearly gave out.

Red shirt helped me to the bathroom standing right outside the door watching me like I may pass out at any second, and I’m not gonna lie I’m glad they stayed because I wasn’t so sure I wouldn’t pass out. After finishing my business I slowly made my way to the sink and when I caught sight of my self I’m nearly did pass out “what the fuck happened to my face? And my hair?” My face was swollen and me eyes were crusty as fuck. And my hair was sticking up and out like I stuck a fork in an outlet. I was honestly so distracted with the state of my head I didn't notice how slightly off everything was. The next time I would be alone I would notice the lack of handles on the sink and toilet. And how the mirror was almost plastic in appearance and had the reflective quality of a funhouse mirror on a traveling fair ride.

After I finished washing my hands Red shirt helped me back into bed, and let me know that the doctor would be in shortly. Leaving me time to take in my surroundings. The room was bare. Now I’m not sure what I was expecting, but there was nothing but the walls, a window and 2 beds. (Hold on to the two beds because yes I did get a fucking roommate). I remember thinking that if I didn't still want to kill myslef anymore this room would definitely make me want to reconsider. On that dark note the doctor entered and stood near the edge of my bed. “How are you feeling?” the doctor asked. I’m serious this was the first question this trained professional asked my suicidal ass. Then me being the sarcastic little shit I am, responded, “Like I tried to snack on a bunch of painkillers.” The doctor nodded and wrote something down. Now don’t ask me why but this response only served to enrage me, and till this day I can not tell you why all sense of self preservation went out the window because the doctors next question, “Do you regret it?” earned another snarky response that turned my mandatory 72 hour hold into an insurance funded 8 day 7 night stay at the worst all inclusive stay I’ve ever had. What did I say you ask? Well while laughing hysterically I replied, “Yea I Do because I fucked it up and now im stuck here answering stupid fucking questions with an IV in my arm.”

Now again, here 6 years later, I realize the doctor was trying to develop a baseline for my mental state and emotional stability, and I doubled down on the emotional instability. However I still maintain this shouldn’t have been the first conversation had after 48 hours of being unconscious and a suicide attempt.

The doctor fed me some bullshit, but I could tell you what he said because I (thought) I knew how this was going to go. They could only hold me for 24 more hours and then they had to let me go. Now If you are reading this with any knowledge about how mandatory holds work then you know, but if this is your first time hearing about this let me explain that typically in my state there is a mandatory 72 hour old for individuals like myself who have been deemed a safety hazard. What I didn't know then was that unless I was being signed into someone's care in an official capacity such as a treatment center or being signed over to a guardian, the doctor has the final say on when one can be released, and I was obviously doing myself no favors hence the 8 day stay.

Anyways the rest of the day passed by uneventfully. I refused to go to any groups, to eat, or to leave my room because I was leaving the next day.

Of course, I didn’t leave the next day though, obviously. So I called my mother and tried to appeal to her basic mothering instincts, “They won't let me leave. I can’t stay here, and they won’t let me leave.” She said something to someone in the background...I guess I should mention that I chose the week of her birthday, while my parents were in New Orleans, to try to unalive myself. “Sweetie, what would you like me to do? Fly back and make them let you out? You sound like your roommate. You sound hysterical… and honestly this is probably for the best. What did you do with my car?” I should also mention that she had no basic mothering instinct (Another story we’ll get to don’t worry about). I was driving one of her cars since I had totaled mine (car number 2), and what did I expect her to do, come running and save me? Support me? Nah, that would have been too much. Later in life I would unpack how fucked up this exchange actually was in therapy, but this isn’t that story.

After verifying that her car was fine she said she would call me later and hung up. Thanks. I wish I could say that the next couple of days went better but they didn’t. The red shirts tried in vain to convince me that the way out was through...And what the fuck does that mean??? These idiots wanted me to Participate and Give it a try. Now keep in mind I was on the unit with people going through withdrawal and people with real world problems like I don’t know fighting for custody of children??!! And then there was me, emotionally unstable and unable to cope with life. I didn’t belong here, but there I was.

Day four is when I finally gave in and guess what they had us, and by us I mean the actual adults in the facility, coloring pictures. With markers because everyone is on suicide watch and we weren’t allowed to have pencils or pens….PENS. And they had us writing things, without damn pens or pencils...MARKERS AND CRAYONS that was it. Now I know some of you are thinking like it's fine, just write with the markers...BUT It isn’t fine how am I supposed to write legibly or seriously with outer space black or tropical rainforest green you’re not. Like my grown adult self had to write out a safety plan (a list of potential triggers, people who you can call on, and activities you can do to keep you safe) WITH RAZZLE DAZZLE ROSE!! But I did it. I went to the coloring group, and then the group skills development session afterwards. I didn’t help, but I went. I grabbed my crayons and filled out the papers like a good in-patient. And you wanna know how I was rewarded…. A new roommate…

humanity
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About the Creator

Amariah Brown

I had an idea for story and then I just started writing. Join me on this journey, and leave your thoughts!!

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