Really, really bad. Then a bit better.

Charlie listened last night in grim silence as I told him the story. After we talked for a bit, he offered some advice that worked for him. For when sleep wouldn’t come because he thought I might be torturing myself. Going over all the times I should have known – did know – and talked myself out of it. Trusting someone who lied. Loving someone who was wrong. Feeling ashamed and overwhelmed and lost.

I don’t think he’ll mind me writing what he does. I hope not, anyway. I think it’s brilliant and I’ve used it, so I wanted to share.

He said that he has – in the past – pictured himself pitching a baseball game. Creates vivid images of the field, all the players, the lineups. Watches the batter and decides on a pitch, throws, watches to see how the batter reacts to his pitch, follows it all the way through. Foul balls, strikes, balls, hits, runs batted in. It’s complex and complete and allows a distraction from the negative thought that otherwise can become overwhelming.

“I like baseball.” He said. “So it helped me. I’d get through a couple innings, and then fall asleep.”

I miss sleep – very, very much. But I didn’t use his technique last night. I have stopped taking the Tylenol PM. I think I was so miserably sick yesterday morning – the flushed cheeks, and hot stomachache and extreme nausea – because I decided to take my antidepressant in addition to the Tylenol PM that would help me sleep. The next step was to pick one and try it alone. Obviously I have a problem with Tylenol PM – it barely works anymore anyway – and I know I need the help with my mood, so Celexa won out. And it was all I took. So I slept for about 3 hours, but not all at once. 10:30-midnight. Awake until 1:30, but I refused to pick up the laptop. Enough – there’s nothing here that can help me right now when I can’t sleep. Slept until 2, then suffered through consciousness again. Then 3-5:10 offered more rest, but I woke up feeling sick.

I went back to the bathroom – I’d left the fluffy blue comforter from the office on the floor with a gray pillow – took a saltine out of the package I left by the sink and tried to eat it. Turned on the shower, lay down, and prayed I’d be able to sleep. To move on. To let go of the pain and forgive. Find myself again. I don’t know how long I was there. It doesn’t matter. It was bad.

I finally got up when light came down the hall from the living room windows. Turned off the shower, turned on the light and brushed my teeth. I debated before scraping my tongue – I didn’t want to throw up and did feel sick – but a clean mouth sounded nice. So I did, happened to glance in the mirror, and was taken forcibly back to a time which I have remembered, but never with with such complete terror and agony.

Grandma – the one who took care of me while my parents worked, who read me stories, cuddled me close, always believed I was right and smart and beautiful, loved me so much, whose eyes looked like mine, who listened when I talked and always offered comfort – died when I was in high school after suffering from deep depressive episodes for over a year. And even after I’d turned my back to the mirror, I closed my eyes, clinging to the toothbrush with both hands, and remembered. The hospital visits, then those to the infirmary. Times when she was supposed to be better, but wasn’t. All the backslides. Finally losing her and realizing that as much as we expected it, the pain was too much to bear.

I was close to her until she got so depressed – never abandoned her for my friends as she expected. I always liked to spend time with her – I’d go to the retirement home to visit and we’d read books – I on her bed, she in her recliner in the mauve studio apartment. We’d go out to eat or to plays. Took trips. Talked. For hours and hours. She’d tell me stories and I’d do the same. We’d read the same articles and discuss them. Watch the same television shows then talk some more. I loved her. Knew her. Was like her.

And so, I knew that someday I’d face this. A depression that was too much. That eclipsed my ability to handle it. Crushed me underneath it and left something I didn’t recognize. I promised myself I’d get help – would not subject my family to the confusion and that is viewing depression to those who haven’t experienced it. And I have, I told myself, trying to soothe though I was visibly trembling with terror. Because what if I can’t fight this? What if I’m gone? Get buried so deep that I can’t respond when people talk to me? Forget details of the simplest conversation? Can’t recover and lie in bed, waiting for death. I’ve seen it. It happens.



I was gasping for air, starting to cry, unable to cope, barely able to breathe. I believe that those moments were the bottom. The worst I’ll have to experience with this particular episode. Because I don’t have any more strength left. Every instinct screamed that I needed to tell someone. That I was sick. That I didn’t know if I could do this. That I was scared. So very scared.

So I told him. Wrote email because the very act of contacting him meant I was sick, I think. Why reach out to the person who hurt me? I don’t know why – if I knew he might not care and so could just practice telling someone indifferent so if I had to get help, I’d have an idea of what to say? Because if anyone deserved to have to deal with me in those moments, it was him? Because maybe he’s a little sick too and he might understand? I don’t know. But I did – I wrote and I shook and I cried through half a box of tissues. And after I finished, I felt a little better.

I had done it – told someone I might not be able to handle this. And if I could do it once, I could do it again. I’d be OK. For this time, I’d make it out.

So I put the laptop away, walked quickly to the bathroom to retrieve my blue comforter, and cuddled under it on the couch. Gripped the top in both hands as I held it under my chin and heard myself saying I was sick. Undeserving a family someday because I’d put them through this – this illness. I had seen my future in Grandma. That was going to be me. And it had nothing to do with him – what he did. It was just a trigger for now, but another trigger would come. And I’d get sucked into a hole so deep and dark that I wouldn’t be able to claw my way out.

Baseball, I thought. Charlie said to think of baseball. I normally can take an example and adapt it to my particular needs – I’m sure he meant I should visualize something that made me happy – but I wasn’t capable in the moment. So I clung to baseball. That’s OK, I soothed, baseball is pretty. The green field, the brown diamond, the white lines and bases. Pretty, bright uniforms – red for one team, white for the other. Big numbers of the backs of them in contrasting colors. People in the green seats that made up the stands. Parents with their children and people with their friends. People they loved. That was nice – having people who loved you.

I think I’m supposed to pitch, I decided, able to breathe again, the tears stopping, my hands relaxing as the held the blanket. I wanted to retain the focus, so I made myself step on the mound, looked at the ball in my hand, stared at the batter who seemed terribly far away, and threw it. Smiled as it landed about 5 feet in front of me. Dad always said I throw right into the ground.

Then I watched as someone came over to pick up the ball and return it to me. I looked at him, not speaking, and smiled. Took the ball and looked again at the batter. He’d moved closer so I could get the ball to him. I thought that was sweet.

So I threw it, and he hit it – very gently – and I watched as it rolled slowly to the side. Looked up at the man who stood next to me – who had retrieved my first pitch – and tilted my head toward the ball. He smiled and went to get it, offered it to me, and took my spot on the mound when I shook my head and scooted over. The players returned to their original positions, no longer crowded around me to provide support because I wasn’t very talented.

I stood behind the new pitcher, watching the game go on without paying much attention. Baseball isn’t very riveting to me. But it was pretty, I thought, turning to watch the ball sail toward the outfield. I wanted to see if someone caught it, but got distracted watching the people in the stands. Someone was eating a hot dog, and I decided I might like one. Perhaps I’d leave the field for a little while and get a soda. Decide between a hot dog and pretzel.

The last time I had a hot dog was at the airport with Carrie, before leaving Orlando. I loved Carrie, I thought. Remembered riding in the car on our trip and asking her to skip forward past a certain artist.

“I might need you to delete her from your iPod.” I said after she skipped to the next song without asking for reasons behind my request.

“Just say the word. I’m there for you, pal.” She said, still not looking away from the road.

“You don’t want to know why?” I asked as I laughed at her.

“To choose between you and a singer? No chance.” She said, and looked at me to smile.

So I smiled, relaxed a bit under my blanket, keeping my eyes closed and mind focused. Not on baseball, but on people. Good people who populate the world. The reason I trust everyone. Why I try to act in a decent manner. Why – even in the moments of great despair – I still want to see tomorrow. It’s good. My experience indicates it just is.

He responded to my email. It helped – reading it. It hurt too, but some of it made sense. I think I’ll need time to get through all of it. But he said that he was the exception rather than the rule. That’s true, I would decide later as I tried to read his words through tears. But I think his behavior with me – these past months – have been the exception for him too. Doing bad things doesn’t make you inherently bad. It can, I guess, but it doesn’t have to. I don’t believe it will in his case. I just don’t.

But before I read it, I went down the hall, walked slowly away from the couch and toward my bed, and stayed focused on good moments. Family – my cousin who always hugs me hello, who has become not only the older woman I admire and adore, but a friend. My mom – the loving, smart, funny woman I try to emulate. Daddy – who didn’t hug his parents at all growing up, but hugged Brother and I all the time. Friends – M, who was enraged and worried in email and in the voicemail I haven’t returned. Rachel – concerned and disappointed because she wanted the best for me. Charlie, I thought, wrapping my arm around a pillow and snuggling under my covers, who when I said I didn’t like nighttime anymore - nights were for being completely alone?

“I’m not going anywhere.” He said, and I smiled into the phone. And he wouldn’t have. Had I not let him go to answer another call, he would have sat with me all night. Far away. Someone I met online. Someone who cared. I had been right to like him, trust him, create a friendship with him.

Unnamed Friend had been calling while I talked to Charlie, and I smiled over her just before I went to sleep. We haven’t known each other long, but she’s been a solidly comforting presence since the beginning of this. Keeps checking on me because she’s one of two people – my cousin is also in town – who can actually show up and sit with me. She offered to do so last night. Knowing that she would come was more than enough. We talked again today. She bought me ice cream on Monday, listened while I talked, offered distracting stories when I couldn’t. She went with me while I filled my prescription, and told me why it was really OK to take them. I was right to trust her too. People are good – I’m not wrong about that. They’re just not always good. Sometimes we screw up. That’s OK.

Sometimes I screw up – it doesn’t make me damaged beyond repair. I’m getting help. I’ll get better. It will be good again.

I was better – just a little, but better – this afternoon. I changed the template and sighed with relief at seeing the blue return. So much better, I thought. Maybe they won’t worry about me so much now. They’ll know I’m doing a little better until I can write and tell them. The pills are starting to work or I’m starting to heal or some combination thereof.

It was bad – the past few days, this morning – so bad that I was terrified I’d try to get through it alone. Push everyone away because I was so scared. But I didn’t. I believe that when I fall, people – even him – want to help me up. And if I eventually come across someone who doesn’t want to help – who is incapable or disturbed or evil – there are others on whom I can focus.

There are still moments where it’s bad. Where I feel hurt and sick and scared. But they’re growing less severe. I’m able to sleep a little more. I ate today – a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch and another for dinner. I’m starting to care more – just a little. I fixed the 5th part of that series. When I wake up tonight and it’s bad, I’ll know it’ll be OK later. I can do this. I'm exhausted and I wish it were over, but I do know that at some point, the pain will ease even more and the joy will find its way back in. It has to. That's how I think the world is.