26 October 2009

Outpatient Therapy, Day 2 Friday, 23 October, 0900

At group, I was clearly still quite angry and was blatant about purposely not choosing to use any tools, and was very vocal about not giving a damn. Of course, the therapist tried to handle me (I hate being handled) and finally she let it go and went on to the next person. When I got home I was still pretty pissed off and feeling restless. Life really does suck. I can’t make up my mind. I sit in this huge house with a beautiful screened-in porch and all I end up feeling is so overwhelmingly depressed because I am so alone. Then I go off on the rage tangent because I can’t sand to be around anyone and all I want is to be left alone. What a fucking oxymoron am I?

I was reading Patrick’s blog today, catching up on what he’d posted while I was gone. (I still have a few other blogs I am behind in reading). So much of what he wrote resonated so strongly. All I want to do is just disappear and be where no one can find me—ever. Leave everything I own except the clothes on my back, walk out my front door, and drop off the grid with no notice to anyone.

No one will miss me—well, maybe except for my manager after the first day or so. I am currently on short-term medical disability leave totally screwing up my team’s workload. I generally get about 200-300 emails a day. By the time I eventually get back to work (perhaps by 09 November), I am sure my mail server will have shut down my email account just due to overload (I’m sure my clients will be thrilled to start getting “return-to-sender” notifications on top of the already existing “out-of-office” reply my manager had set up upon my admission to the hospital). I can’t even begin to imagine how many unread emails I will have waiting for me by the time I get back. If I get back.

I just plain don’t want to do “it” any more. I’m tired; I’m spent. There is nothing left in me. All I want is to walk out my front door and disappear into the wind leaving no fingerprints behind. It’s almost over now. Even though I had all my scripts filled (from the hospital, my regular doctor and my shrink), I haven’t taken any meds since my discharge. I have no clue as to what my blood pressure could possibly be (ask me if I care). Why can’t I just have a heart attack and die? Knowing my luck, I’d have a massive stroke instead, be left incapacitated and totally useless with no more control. God would find that amusing.

No, I still have the option to take control. I’ve been out of contact with everyone since the night I was taken to the ER. My CallerID was empty when I got home and only one personal email was waiting for me. Ever since I came home, I have only received one phone call and that was from my son. I am so proud of him. He’s 26 and has his head on straight. He has a great job and talks about going back to the university. Do you want to know what we talked about tonight? He was telling me how tickled pink he was now that he finally decided to get contacts (he thanked me profusely for my contribution to the gene pool) and went on about how long it had taken him to get the damn things in his eyes for about the first week or so. He sounded like a kid with a new toy. He sounded happy and that made me smile.

Do I feel guilty about what I will put him through? Sometimes I do because he will be the one to have to fly back east to pick up the pieces. But my job is done. I raised a great son and it’s probably the one thing I’ve done without fucking up to badly. He’s living his own life—he’ll be fine after a while. At least I can say, with past performances, he won’t be surprised. This last episode, however, he never knew of. He’s not listed on my emergency contact list (in fact no one is). But, to head anything off at the pass, the day I was admitted to the psych hospital I texted him that I was headed out of town on business for about three weeks, and oh, by the way, let mom know as my cell battery was getting ready to go. Kept the hounds at bay.

And while I was at the hospital, I missed two services in a row at church–something I hadn’t done in a long time. I’m not planning on returning. There is nothing there for me any more. The ironic thing is that the church is right across the street from my house (in this part of the country, churches are like gas stations—there is one on every corner). And all this time, my car has been parked right in front of my house. Oh yeah, that’s right, there was one member who left me a voicemail the other day wanting to know what was up since I had missed two in a row. Evidently, my pastor didn’t tell anyone what I had done. I just deleted it as soon as the connection broke. No one else at the church has bothered to call. I guess my pastor felt a professional obligation to call in the 911, but that was the extent of it.

It’s weird. I’ve only been home for three days and it seems like it’s been ages since I was in the hospital. It’s all just a distant, hazy memory. I just thought of something amusing. I wonder if there is someone at the hospital that is in charge of reading the obituaries every day just to figure out what their success rate is. But, it doesn’t matter. There is no one here to write mine and send it in.©2009

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