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Broken Places, Part 2
The darkness. The compulsion to die. I couldn’t shake the obsession… no matter what I did.
I prayed.
I read the Bible.
I ate. I ate more.
I got high. And tried to get higher each time I used.
I got numb. I zoned out. For months, my prayers had been short and to the point: “HELP!”
Even though I was emotionally numb, I was also in intense emotional pain, and that confused me even more. In order to simply move through my days, I had to “go away.”
Moments ran into moments ran into minutes ran into hours ran into days ran into weeks ran into months ran into years.
And no matter what I did, I was drowning under the crushing feeling of hopelessness. I didn’t feel that I had one single reason to be alive. I was loved, I knew that. I had a wonderful family, immediate and extended, and they loved me. But that means nothing when all you feel is a deficit of hope. I felt a bottomless emptiness.
At the end, I was constantly battling to simply stay alive. I was battling NOT to swallow a handful of pills. I was battling NOT to blow my brains out. I was battling NOT to drive over a cliff or off the side of the Altamont Pass.
I was exhausted from the never-ending battle. Nightmares were a regular occurrence, so I stopped sleeping.
I was nearing fifty, and nothing I was doing was working anymore. All of my coping mechanisms, unhealthy and/or dangerous, were failing me. The darkness pushed me into a corner. I felt like I had to remind myself to merely take a breath.
I was in trouble, and if I was going to live, I needed help.
I didn’t believe hope was possible, but one desperate afternoon, I’d learn I was wrong.
Hope and help were on their way through a stranger and an innovative clinic called Intensive Trauma Therapy.
To be continued.
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