Friday, March 6, 2009

Alive and unwell and drunk in Cardiff

When was the crash? Not so long ago now and I'm still in it - the binge, the out of control slide into misery and liquid lunches (they're for lightweights, liquid breakfasts, now we're talking) mid-morning crises and unconsciousness rather than sleep.

I'm unemployed again. I quit my job. Or rather I just stopped going. All because I was left on my own and couldn't cope - Mrs CD went away for a couple of stretches and I went to the pub, fell apart, ripped my little wings off and slouched in a quiet corner slurping and staring at a nasty world.

I went to the doctor on Monday. I'd written down what I needed to say because I knew I wouldn't get through it without breaking down and I wanted desperately not to forget what I wanted to say - it wasn't much and it was all too predictable; back in the pattern. Doctor, I'm depressed, I think about taking my own life every day, I get as far as writing notes and include what music I'd like played at my funeral (a favourite pub conversation this, as it happens it's Tomorrow Never Knows by JohnPaulGeorgeandRingo, Unbearable by the Wonder Stuff and Hurt by Johnny Cash - toe tapping, head nodding church clearers all).

The upshot was a sick note for eight weeks and a prescription for more Trazadone - post-dated in order that I shouldn't hold enough supplies for a serious overdose attempt. I looked it up and there's no record of a successful suicide with Trazadone, just long, long sleep. I don't want to die, at the end of the day that's what it comes down to, why I don't take the pills - and if I really did there are methods far more proven to succeed, so I have to conclude that I don't want to die. There is a part of me that just wants to vanish, maybe end up in hospital and getting some proper help - in all my travails that's the only time I've seen a psychiatrist, after a suicide attempt that left me hospitalised for a week - I got about 15 minutes of his time and he told me to pull myself together while waving a pen with the name of the antidepressant I'd necked emblazoned across it.

It's all a struggle at the moment though. All I want to do is drink and sleep, get up and do it all again. I accept now that I can't drink safely, at least not for a good long time and I'm going to ask for a detox again, even if it's an inpatient one, which I've desperately tried to avoid up to now. I'm also committed to asking for antabuse, I need to stay sober.

Sadly, I've been happier of late - happier because in going daily to The O I've made a few friends - good people who I really enjoy talking to and I have to prepare to leave them all behind (I don't think I can do the sitting in the pub with a soft drink, it's too difficult, so I have to try and fill that hole with something else.) There are things on the horizon - the support group at the therapeutic day programme, maybe AA, there are other places too. I need to contact the Fitzhamon Centre too - they do detoxes I think and maybe I can get some more successful counselling there.

That was in my letter to the doctor too (he was marvellous - very understanding and kind) that I know when I'm sober I desperately miss what alcohol does for me which is that it is the ONLY thing I have ever found that makes me content or gives me any semblance of confidence or comfort in myself.

Mrs CD is here now and has a day off today. The worst thing I face is telling my parents what I've done and how I am - they care so much (too much really, but all with the right motives). I'll probably do it shamefacedly by email because I can't face speaking to them.

The fact that I'm writing this is a positive thing in itself though. Maybe I'm coming up from the blackness. I hope so because I can't stay down there for very much longer.

Lots of love.