So... two years.
Its almost two years to date that I had my last drink. Eleven since I quit smoking. Two years since I had to be admitted to a psychiatric institution and spent some weeks locked up there. I guess it’s time to tell the tale, to shake off a bit of the gravity of that matter, to write about it. I don’t really care if others read this, this is mainly an exercise in selfishness, these words are for me. I hope they are a reminder not only of why I had to go there, but also why I was discharged.
Long story boring: I got really, really drunk and had a psychotic episode. Blacked out. Engaged in loud, verbal violent outbursts and started self inflicting physical harm. In the struggle of my detention I begged to be shot by a cop, tried to wrestle his service gun off him and placed it in my mouth. This starts when one day I notice a sharp pain on my chest, went to get tested and learned that I have a heart problem (hypertension and cardiomyopathy from stress, that had never been detected before). I was drinking a lot at the time. A case of beer by myself, often a Bourbon bottle every two or three days. Sometimes I went to sleep and woke up to go to work still completely wasted. I have no idea if this was just to distract myself, or to find courage to do something more dire and irrational. This derailed to the point that I ended up on the streets making a fuss, hurting myself (apparently I bit a bottle and tried to swallow glass) until the neighbors, who were unable to control me, had to call the police to stop me. Waking up tied, completely unaware of where (or when) you are has to be one of the scariest things that can happen to anyone. Add to that the confusion and haziness of the sedatives, a monstrous thirst and hangover and the pain on my wrists, raw flesh exposed from struggling so much when I was handcuffed. I remember I had grass, small pebbles and shards of glass stuck between my lower lip and gums that I had to push out of my mouth with my tongue, because I was restrained.
Sleep came and went, and eventually I realized I was not in jail, but institutionalized and under medical supervision. Fuck, psychiatrics hospitals are scary. The caretakers are really nice and so, so SO calm. I don't know if they’re just used to it all, completely jaded or super professional, but my fellow crazies were a nightmare. Some threaten you and try to fight you, some try to fondle you, some talk and talk and you can’t make sense of what they’re trying to convey. Some stare, some avoided me, some screamed if I made accidental eye contact.
Like all bad experiences I try to make sense of it and look for an opportunity to improve.
Months after being released I had a hard time focusing. It seemed impossible to engage in long conversations. At the time, I was sure the damage was permanent. To date I surprise myself becoming irrationally upset when I see couples showing affection. Small details, even pictures or hearing tones of voice and words that I associate with happier times can trigger my discomfort. I am not always able to ignore it, it is always uncomfortable, but bearable.
I still get anxiety attacks: my eyes lose focus, I run short of breath and an sudden and imperious need to cry crushes me to the ground. Sometimes just thinking about my state of mind I makes a lump in my throat appear, my jaw tenses and starts to tremble. But these events are becoming rarer.
I am still concerned of losing the ability to find happiness in life. I notice that I’m way more cynical and less and less interested in activities that I once found entertaining, and a constant lack of inspiration. There’s an uneasy certainty of having wasted my youth, and of losing the disposition and the energy that I once thought characterized me. There is a part of me that all I want to do is lie in bed all day, watch movies and play games. My days have turned into a routine of mental gymnastics and excuses to get up, take my medicine, take a shower, go to work and ignore that part of me that wants to stay locked up. I miss and at the same time resent the absence of my previous partner. I feel guilty for avoiding responsibilities and for not taking charge of what could be important for my future.
But I returned to work and have been sober ever since. Went to therapy. I take my meds. I post on tumblr. You people help.
