Rock Bottom

Never love an artist. Never let an artist fall in love with you. I never knew that being loved could cause me so much pain.

Three months ago I had a great man in my life. But I was scared to death. I didn't know myself. How could he love me when he didn't even know who I was? How could I know? I let things go too far, then I had to admit I was lying to myself. And to him.

The good news is I'm in therapy now and on meds.

In a perfect world mental illness would be like drug addiction. Romanticized in movies, books, and song. People getting better would feel good about themselves. Hey, man, it's been 6 months.

But how to dole out the chips? How to measure recovery.

One year since you had a drink. It's so easy to measure. Not that it's easy to quit. I never knew till I tried dating an alcoholic that alcohol is everywhere. I didn't think about it much. I am NOT saying it's easy to quit. And I know that once you quit you have to deal with the emotional problems that alcohol or drugs were covering up. It's just that with substance abuse, progress seems concrete.

With mental illness, it's different.

I've been on meds for more than 10 years, and in and out of therapy for as long, but it didn't seem to help.

I feel so ALONE right now. My illness caused me to hurt so many people. And to drive them away. And I just lost the last one in November. Three months ago. On the anniversary of his sobriety. I told him I'd take him to dinner that night but it was a HUGE mistake. Making a big deal out of his problems were a big mistake because I couldn't see him. Dinner for two isn't a celebration if the feelings aren't there. We got in a huge fight. Or rather, I told him off, and yelled at him. The worst part is I loved him. I wish I could meet him now, instead of back then, now that I've learned all of this, but it's too late.

NOv:

I finished off the last of a bottle of Sake (only one shot, but I so rarely drink it had a stronger effect than it would on someone else)
IT was more symbolic than anything, but at least I could cry that night, really cry, for the first time in 20 years.

I wrote till my hand felt like it would fall off. I wrote my pain, guilt, loss, sorrow. I wrote again and again asking for forgiveness, for release, for someone anyone to take away the pain, for the chance to go back and do it again. I wrote that being beautiful didn't solve anything. I wrote that I was so lonely I had a physical pain. I wrote that I was empty inside. I was dead inside. I was evil. I had no soul. I deserved to die. I was alone and I deserved the pain I felt. I letters to him asking for forgiveness, begging, pleading, then wrote that I was tired of apologizing. There was nothing I could do. There was no closure. There still isn't.

I called crisis lines. I had to tell the whole story all over again each time. Some were helpful. Some blamed me. In the end, it didn't help.

I work at night, in a huge, dim empty building with computers and only one co-worker, janitors, and security guards. The night I hit ROCK BOTTOM, it was New Years Eve. My mom had been visiting, but now I was all alone in a big empty room with just the hum of the heater. After my co-worker left, I was sobbing loudly that "I'm here all alone, no one can help me, someone please come help me, no one cares." Over and over. Then I drove home screaming the same thing: about being ALONE and NO ONE cares. NO ONE will save me. I have to keep this dismal job. I will keep spending my nights off all alone. I will die alone and no one will care.

You know what? By the time I got home, I felt better. I don't remember what I did before I went to bed, but I didn't call a crisis line, and I didn't OD on pills. I decided: so I did the worst thing I'm capable of, and I'm alive. Anything I do at all is better than that.

I started thinking of myself as a superhero.

I called