How to change a tire.

I still have alot of bad days.  Days when I wish that I would have been successful in the parking lot a few years ago.  Not really serious, just pondering how things would have turned out.  And sometimes, those days turn into weeks and I am find myself in a very dark, lonely, and familiar place.  And then the thinking  becomes distorted and you start making sense out of nothing.  

Recently, I had several of those days strung together.  So it was about a week of sitting in my dark hole.  At some point, probably by day three, my thoughts drifted into wondering how much better everyone would be if I was gone.  Then it begins to gain steam and you start thinking about how it could really work.  How your wife would have a huge pile of cash from your life insurance. And don't just assume that because you have life insurance that it will pay out if you kill yourself.  It doesn't always.  

Anyway, by day four I was in a very bad place.  It was probably day six or seven in July a few years ago by the time that I went out and bought the gun so the slide begins picking up steam after day three.  Unfortunately, you tend to lose the ability to step back and realize that you have been on this ride before.  You can only see a foot in front of you so forget about what lies ahead.  Its all about the hurt you are feeling at the moment.  

Its weird how well you remember certain moments in your life with absolute clarity.  Part of the reason that I started this blog was to help me remember the moments of that July afternoon in the parking lot.  I never wanted to forget how badly I hurt and the mess that I created as a result.  Some of the moments have grown a little fuzzy over the years so I want to retain those memories.  The event I am about to share is seared into my brain like nothing else that I have ever experienced.  

I work from home and was sitting at my desk.  When I am in a bad place, I don't get much work done.  I daydream alot and have no focus.  That was definitely going on.  I was actively thinking about how much better off my family would be if I just drove out somewhere and finished the job.  I had it all figured out about how much cash my wife would have and how she could start over.  How my children didn't need me in their lives.  Total stupidity but thats where I was.  And then I got a call.  

It was around 2 in the afternoon when my 17 year old daughter called.  

"Dad, one of the tires on my car blew and I am on the side of the road.  What do I do?"

"Where is the car?  Are you in a safe place from the road?"

"Yes, I am on a back road and there is no traffic."

"I am on my way."

Thank God for being able to track your kids on their phones, I was able to find her right away and shot out the door.  I am not an overly religious person but I have never felt the presence of God as much as I did at that very moment.  I felt as if God had just hit me with a 2x4 to remind me that my family does need me.  I was a little sick to my stomach as I drove to my daughter.  If I was gone, who would she have called?  Yeah, she may have called a tow truck, but at 17, I doubt she would have come to that decision right away.  

I got there and made it a point to have her change it with me giving instructions over her shoulder.  I tightened everything up after she was done and she was on her way home within 20 minutes of me getting there. 

I could no longer deny the fact that my family needed me.  Not just because I could change a tire or financially provide, but also because I made great french toast.  Because I told the best dad-jokes. Because I would regularly explain why Empire Strikes Back is the most important film in the entire Star Wars films.  My family needs me not just for one reason but for many.  And for me to take myself out of the picture would be incredibly selfish.  

If you are hurting and having a tough time seeing the bigger picture, dont' go it alone.  No matter what you may think, someone gives a shit about you.  It may not be someone you expect but that person is out there.  And you are needed.  Call Suicide Prevention at 800-273-8255.

I just want to shave...

After the morning meeting, we all shuffled down the hall towards a large room that doubled as the cafeteria and the family visitation room.  The walk down to the cafeteria was a journey of wonder and excitement.  Would we have crepes?  Belgium waffles?  Salmon and capers on New York bagels?  The anticipation was enough to break out the lorazepam.  

But before making it to our destination, we would stop by a small room to get morning medications and have our vitals taken.  On the first day, I asked the tech taking my blood pressure for a razor so that I could get the week of growth that was overtaking my face.  Without looking up at me, the young lady told me that I needed to ask the charge nurse for permission at the morning meeting tomorrow.  

Permission?  

Oh, that's right; several of us in here want to kill ourselves.  Alright, not terribly unexpected.  So I had to wait another day.  Damn.  Having completed my newly increased dosage of Zoloft, I was continuing my journey to see what culinary delights awaited me.  

As I entered the cafeteria I was disappointed not to see a buffet line or a carving station.  No large table of cut fresh fruit.  What I find was a lovely spread of pre-wrapped cinnamon rolls and juices in small cups, similar to what you would use for a urine specimen. And when I say pre-wrapped, I mean the kind you see at a 7-11.  Nothing that might require a knife, because, well...its a knife.  And we all know how much damage one can do with plastic ones.  Ok, I suppose if you are really determined, you could manage a good welt with a plastic knife.  

Lets fast forward to the morning meeting on day two when we are all going around and talking about our goals for the day.  When it was my turn, I said I wanted to get a razor so I could shave.  

"You need to position it as a goal"

WTF

"I just want to shave."

"How can you make it a goal?"

At this point, I now feel like the monkey tied to a music box, holding up a cup for coins from passerby's. 

"Would like to build the trust of the staff to gain access to a razor."

"Nice job, lets see how the day goes."

Clink<sound of coins dropping in cup>

At the end of the day, I was given 5 minutes with a razor under the watchful eye of one of the techs.  And just a word of advice, dont expect to get a shave similar to the quality of a Gillette.  Think of using your wife or girlfriend's razor that they use on their legs for the past month.  

The point of this posting was the reality of being in a psych unit; you are there to show them that you are making progress, not so much about actually making progress.  Once you are past the stabilization stage and you are no longer a danger to yourself or others, you are there to show them that.  This was a difficult one for me.  It began to feel like a giant power struggle.  And until I was ready to accept that, it would be a very painful stay.  

Having said this, if you need help, get it.  Dont do this alone.  Some people need the safety of a psych unit.  And frankly, I guess I did, too.  But know going in that its not a magical place where people are there to heal you.  They are there to "stop the bleeding."  They want to get you safe and out of crisis and get you out.  And along the way, treat you a bit like a trained monkey.  

The people you see at Wawa...

I get up around 5:00am each weekday and drive up to my job about 30 miles from my house.  Its a hellish drive, takes about an hour and a half and two hours in the evening.  DC traffic is the devil.  So each morning, I stop and get coffee, typically at a nearby 7/11 or Wawa.


In the fall of 2018, one blurry-eyed, chilly morning, I pulled into Wawa and found a parking spot next to a police car.  Nothing unusual, just a couple of cops in their squad car, chatting.  I got out and went in to get my cup of rocket fuel to get through the drive.  While pouring, police officers came in.  One of which was the female officer that spoke to me in that commuter lot last July.

<gulp>

I am not sure that I have ever been "triggered" before so I was never certain what that meant, until that very moment.  Standing at the coffee counter, I was instantly transported back to that moment in July of 2017.  Feeling the sweat and heat of that day, sitting in my car, pressing the gun against my head.  Overcome with despair and hopelessness that rocked me to my very core.

The officers immediately walked to the coffee counter and began pouring cups for themselves.  They continued to chat about someone in their department that was requiring everyone to complete additional training that neither felt was necessary.  They did not appear to notice me soaking in everyone word spoken by the two of them, but the woman's voice was drilling into my brain.

They were chatting about someone they worked with and how they had an issue with something this person had said.  To be honest, that was about all I could make out.  I just could not take my eyes off that woman.  

As I sat in the car that July day, soaked in sweat and panic as the SWAT team began to take their positions around me, her voice was like a lifeline that I couldn't decide if I should take.  I knew that the day would not end well, regardless of what I decided.  But her soft approach was welcome after the previous officer's more direct and hard tone.  She seemed to be empathic to the mess I was in and less threatening.  I guess her approach just spoke to me and encouraged me to take the path of less bullets flying into me.  

Within moments, they paid for their coffee and were back in their vehicle.  I instantly regretted not approaching her and thanking her for her help that day.  I wanted her to know that for all of the shit that they likely deal with, her work that day was greatly appreciated not only by me but my family, as well.  

Pretty sure the people behind me are getting pissed at my slow pace.  I snapped out of the moment I was sent back to and finished up. 

I know that I will forever carry the events of that day and look forward to not panicking as the anniversary of that day approaches.  But until then, I will alway be watching for that officer as I get my morning cup of coffee.  

This isn't about anything other than the person and his family...

Last night, amid all of the Twitter frenzy about Trumps tax avoidance, there was a story that, while not getting the same attention, was getting traction.  Brad Parscale, former Trump campaign manager was hospitalized for suicide attempt.  

https://www.cnn.com/2020/09/27/politics/brad-parscale-hospitalized/index.html

I have to admit, I struggled with whether or not to share the link.  I am in no way, shape or form, a Trump fan.  And my post about this is not about Trump or a commentary on his campaign.  I am not wanting to draw attempting to Trump or the man at the center of the story.  But in reality, it's just me, you and a half dozen bots reading this blog so I doubt it's going matter much.  

First of all, I grieve for Brad and his family. Being at this place in his life and then to have it plastered all over the Internet must be a nightmare.  Right now, he and his family need to focus on him and getting through this crisis.  He isn't even out of the hospital.  And now, 64 million of his closest friends know about this.  Instead of thinking of what brought him to this place, I cannot help but believe that he is thinking about damage control for his own reputation, let alone for that turd he worked for.  Of course, I am speculating but I do remember having to get a hold of a phone so that I could explain my absence from the office without raising too many eyebrows.  I imagine that Brad may be thinking the same.  

And the news is usually playing in the day room so its not like he isn't aware that the world knows about this.  

Right now, there are some on the left that are taking joy of kicking Brad while he is down and seeing this as an analogy for the Trump campaign.  And that is wrong.  This is not about Trump.  It's about Brad and his family.  

Leave him the fuck alone. 

At some point, I imagine that Brad will make a connection to Trump and losing his job as campaign manager this summer to his current mental health.  And that is a pretty fair connection.  We tend to wrap our self identity to our jobs and to fall so hard and so publicly will, without a doubt, have an impact.  But this isn't about politics.  Its about a human being hurting in a way that can destroy oneself.  

Be a decent person and stop talking about Brad.  Say a little prayer for him and his family. 

Welcome to the psych unit

My intent of this post is to simply share my experience and memorialize it.  Since there are about two people who have read my blog so far as well as several thousand Russian bots, I am just gonna tell it like it was.

As I set out that morning to do what I intended, it never dawned on me that I make not be able to do it and there would be aftermath.  If you are suicidal, you are not thinking clearly and the depression makes it nearly impossible to see past your nose.

After the several hours in the ER of being asked if I was still thinking of hurting myself and what insurance I had, I was finally taken into the psych unit.  This is where it just got weird and surreal for me.

When I was in college, I wanted to be a psychology major.  I wanted to help people and all of that crap.  So I got a job as a behavioral health tech in a psych unit of a medical hospital.  It was a really interesting gig where I assisted people receive electric shock therapy (fascinating and has a totally undeserved reputation), help move patients unable to help themselves, and tie people into beds who needed a shot in the ass.  And by shot in the ass, I mean a shot of thorazine or some other medication so they stopped trying to hurt me or others.

Really incredible experience but it helped me see that I didn't want to work in psychology.  A lot of the people in psych units as you likely are aware) experiences a horrific amount of trauma and I had a hard time letting that go.  And working with the kids was especially difficult.  But that is a story or another day. Anyway, I did that for 3 years until I got a degree in art.

So back to being moved into the psych ward as a patient.

Psych units are pretty drab places, not high of the hospitals list of places to invest in. They are typically pretty sparse so there isn't much for someone to hurt themselves with.  The hall is lined with furniture is huge so it can't be picked up and thrown.  But there are lots of copies of last weeks newspapers and Better Homes and Gardens.  As well, as a 2 year old copy of Sports Illustrated.

I was greeted by a young lady who took me into a small room to get vitals and run down the rules. As if the humiliation had not been enough that day, the hits just kept coming.  Why was it humiliating?  I couldn't tell you. The young lady was nice.  No one was bugging me.  But I was almost old enough to be her dad.  I had been in her very same position 30 years earlier.  I knew the drill. I just it was the realization that I was no different from anyone else that I had ever taken into a small room and gotten a set of vitals and asked if they were still thinking of hurting themselves.

It was now around 6 pm and I had not eaten all day.  Or had much to drink and since I had perspired several gallons so far that day, I was getting pretty dry. I asked for some water and she quickly got me a small tan pitcher filled with crushed ice and water and a styrofoam cup.  Once she gave me the water and the schedule, she asked if I wanted anything to eat and I said no and rolled over on my metal frame and thin layer of cotton, pretending to be a bed and mattress.  I then slept for the next 12 hours like I hadn't slept in years.

I went out to the day room and met my new housemates.  It was a large room with big ugly chairs around the walls and tables in the center.  There was a television up near the ceiling tuned to some home remodeling show. There were about 12 people in the room of various ages.  I was not the oldest nor the youngest.  I found a seat against a wall and began to soak it all in.

After a moment, a young latino man sat down next to me.  He introduced himself as Melvin.  I shook his hand and immediately got nervous.  Why?  I have no idea.  He was a bit rough and had a tattoo under his left eye.  I guess because I really don't run in circles with folks that have facial tattoos.  I was much bigger than Melvin and its not like the psych unit is a type of fight club.  I guess it was just the fact that someone approached me out of the blue.

Melvin asked me why I was there and I kind of grunted that I had a heated discussion with the SWAT team.  That immediately got his attention.

"No shit?"  I think I knew that throwing the SWAT team in there might get a good reaction and Melvin did not disappoint.  "What happened?"  By then, a large woman walked to the center of the room and said good morning.

"I am nurse Helen and I want to go over a few things for our new folks.  We start every day by discussing our goals for the day, get vitals, and then we go to breakfast and begin groups.  We do not spend the day in bed, we need to see you and we need to see you participating.  Your involvement, or lack thereof, will be shared with your physician."

Well, she seems pleasant.  

Everyone then went around the room saying a goal they had for the day.  For most, it was attending a group or speaking with their doctor.  I found it to be condescending.  Just say something that they want to hear.  She got to me and asked what my goal was for the day. I looked at her blankly and said I had no idea.  She looked at her clipboard and then back at me.  "You just got here last night?  We can skip you for today.  But be ready to share a goal for tomorrow."

Tomorrow?  Oh hell no.  I better be gone by noon today.  

She then moved on to Melvin, still sitting next to me who gave a goal of talking to his social worker.  After she finished going around the room, everyone got up and began filing out.  I didn't know what was going on so I stay seated.  Melvin had begun walking towards the door, turned and asked me if I wanted to get breakfast.

Not too sure that I am gonna see an omelette or carving station but what the hell, so I got up and followed.

Ok, more later.  I recently learned that someone else is actually reading these who, I do not believe to be a Russian bot so welcome to my head.

Back on the slide...

Sometimes the loneliness is crippling.  Sometimes, it hurts getting out of bed because I have lost hope.  I am learning that my work colleagues are not who they appeared to be.  And that is killing me.  I made a mistake by trusting them.  I made a mistake by letting my guard down.

So now I begin the slide once again.  The all too familiar slide into depression.  And what makes it worse is that my wife has little to no compassion or patience for this.  But get ready for this, you may want to sit down for it... she is a therapist.

Every time I open up and tell her what is happening and how I am feeling, she assumes that she has to fix it.  I work remote most of the week and I hate it.  Yes, lots of people would give anything to work from home and I was one of those people until I did.  And I learned that I enjoy the routine of going into the office, of seeing colleagues, of enjoying a laugh.  Now, it's just me and the dogs.  When I shared this with my wife she insisted that I needed to snap out of it and that I am so lucky to be able to do this.  I agree that I am fortunate that my employer allows me to do this since I am so far from the office.  But I have been doing this for a year now and it just plain sucks.  It's difficult to collaborate and hear about the quick conversations that happen in passing about a project.  She minimizes how I feel and that just makes it worse.

So the slide just accelerates.

I admitted to her how lonely I am.  I am turning 50 next month and I have no friends.  I never minded not having friends but its beginning to bother me.  I have my family and that's it.  I have no guy friends to go have a beer with and watch football with.

I am feeling things that I haven't felt in awhile.  But I am no longer oblivious to the reality of killing myself.  It would shatter my children.  I cannot do that to them.  I know I can't.  That is what really sucks.  I can't get away from this.  I cannot stop this train, I have to ride it out.  While that may be a good thing, I cannot shake the hurt that I feel about my wife minimizing all of this.  I am crushed.  I just want to go to sleep and never wake up. But I have to face her.

This post is a lot of rambling and not making too much sense.  But since no one reads theses, that ok. Someday I will re-read these and wonder what the fuck I was thinking.

Today is not that day.

What hurts today may not hurt tomorrow

When I was a kid, I would fall off my bike and rip up my knee. Sometimes it was me being a smartass and other times, it was a friend not looking where he was going and running into me. Hurt like a bitch. Sometimes it was a small one, about the size of a quarter and other times, it was the size of several dollar bills laid along the side of my leg and thigh. The road rash had caught up with me once again. If it was during the school year, I had to figure out a way to put my pants on without letting the fabric rub against the area until the scab was strong enough to protect the raw patch. But if it was summer, I could let it air out until the area dried up and scabbed over. But in either case, after a day or two, it would dry up and feel better. A week or two later, I could proudly look at the new scar with great admiration for myself that I survived such a harrowing experience.

Well, as we grow up, the experiences grow with us and so does the road rash. Today, my road rash looks quite different from when I was a kid. It doesn’t appear as raw skin, bleeding profusely. It can appear very differently or not even appear at all. Sometimes my hurt is self inflicted from being careless and other times, it was something out of my control. But in either case, it hurts. The hard part is remembering that much like a skinned knee, the hurt that I am feeling as a 49 year old guy will go away.

The bills will get paid. The fighting will stop. The bullshit at work will go away. I am not for one second suggesting that all of these things will go away easily. Bills go to collection and cars are repossesed. Divorces happen. People get fired. Not suggesting that things don’t get worse, for one second.

But I am saying that at some point, the rain and the clouds will part and the sun will come out. It has to. Even if it’s a brief bit of sunshine, it does come out. At some point, the road rash will scab over, regardless of how bad it is. I have to remind myself of that one quite often. This too, shall pass. 

Below is a link to a really good article about losing sight of this. Our distorted thinking makes it difficult to keep this in mind and we fall prey to black and white thinking. We start with the “always” and “never” and idealize a false reality by saying “if only“. https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/psych-unseen/201806/suicides-most-dangerous-cognitive-distortion 

Skinning our knee hurts. Losing a job is horrible. Being humiliated by our bosses is demoralizing. Being part of a failing marriage is heartbreaking. Facing a legal crisis can be overwhelming. But at some point, just like the clouds, it blows over and its in the past. Do not let these moments define you.

And then someday, you can look back and remind yourself of how much stronger you are for making it through that storm.