Friday was, without doubt, the most emotionally distressing day and night I’ve had since I attempted to take my life four years ago. I’d felt myself sliding for the week leading up to it. I’d lost my ability to concentrate, I’d become agitated and uncharacteristically angry, I wanted to be left completely alone as I’d lost patience with everyone around me, and I’d begun to formulate a rough plan of an exit strategy. I was feeling overwhelmed with animosity and grief and all my usual coping tools were failing, so I turned to alcohol as one is want to do. Before I knew it, one drink turned into six and then of course, I was just depressed and drunk. And as it feels so advised in that scenario, when one is three sheets to the wind and sobbing uncontrollably, I took to the keyboard to hammer out some austere self loathing to a particularly patient friend, who graciously received my inebriated ramblings and recommended I put the drink down and head to bed.
The next morning, I woke feeling exceptionally embarrassed and ashamed of my behaviour the previous night. In addition, the sombre desolation that shadowed me the day before was still there upon waking, even more intensely than it had been previously. The first thing I did was apologize to my friend who had borne the brunt of my despondency the night before. I tried to explain how a combination of madness, loneliness and melancholy all drunkenly conspired to hit the send button on my morose thoughts. They were forgiving yet concerned about my mental state. As am I, if truth be told. I’ve since considered that it might be beneficial for me to go back to hospital for a spell if I can’t shake the black dog on my own. I’m going to give it a few days and see how I feel, but I’m going to pack a bag just in case.