To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause:
-- William Shakespeare, Hamlet
Death is the great leveller. It comes to all, regardless of wealth, social position, age, occupation or what side of the political spectrum one falls. It is, for the most part, unexpected; it comes at its own time and pace.
But what happens to us, when we wish for death. Does he come when called? Does he wait until we stand on the precipice, holding our hands when we've made a decision; or does he hold our hands to hold us back until our time. For some, it's a game to stare death in the eye, conquer it at that moment, and live the day.
Death frightens me. Perhaps it's the unknown; perhaps it's the question of what have I done with my life to make a difference.
We're old acquaintances, death and I. I grew up watching it steal the lives of family members, long before most children even understand the concept.
Last April, we became good friends, when I finally decided to end it all. The plan was made -- and it would have been so easy to do. Did death stop me? Did life call me to it? I went to my psychiatrist, and was admitted immediately to the local ER; the next day I was transferred to a boutique facility. The discrepancy between the two facilities was shocking: the local hospital had no real psychiatric staff and the patients were poor white, black and latino; some had been veterans from Vietnam or Gulf War I -- most had no home to go to following their release.
With the amount of money the boutique facility charged, one would believe the services would be far and away better -- especially with this place being a haven for celebrities and the filthy rich -- except for a bit more privacy, there wasn't much difference. I'll never forget the first question I was asked upon my arrival at the facility; it wasn't asked by a staff member, but another inmate, "What's you drug of choice?" In my frame of mind the question startled me; I didn't do drugs, and having an alcoholic father and assorted relatives, I drink very little and not often.
I spent a week in lock-up (or is that lock-down), crying, arguing and making certain that I did all the necessary things I could to be released. Was I better? In some ways perhaps, the suicidal ideation was linked to Cymbalta (another one of those insufficiently researched medications).
The thoughts though of suicide haven't truly left me. Friday, I was in crisis mode, feeling there wasn't anything in my life that was worth living. Death could have knocked on my door, and I'd have been more than happy to let him in.
Anyone who's felt suicidal knows that pain of emptiness swelling inside their gut. It doesn't matter the friends you have, or the things you do -- nothing eases that ache, and you'd do anything to rid yourself ot it. This weekend, I took the coward's way out, and drunk myself into a stupor: the ultimate Lost Weekend. I've kept my mind as active as possible by posting probably far too many and far too long comments; so apologies to anyone I may have offended.
Does anyone know, does that unbearable pain go away with time, or is it always a constant reminder that one day sooner, rather than later, you'll reach that inevitable fork in the road . . . and miles to go before I sleep . . . and miles to go before I sleep.
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Please know that this is not some ill-disguised suicide (pseudocide) note. Writing for me is cathartic. As I put words to paper, I can focus my mind elsewhere.