It had been about two weeks since I had disappeared, mid-way through a shift at work.  I had a few panic attacks that day, which culminated in a second week-long stint in a psych ward that began the day before my 31st birthday.  But that is another story, for another time.  

Upon getting released from that hospitalization, I wanted to take some time off and figure things out.  But because of the costs incurred from my hospital stay, and the fact that I felt like I should be contributing to my family, I scheduled myself to go back to work ASAP.  As I waited for my doctors to sign off on my mental ability to go back to work, for my HR department to approve my request for return, and for the details of my return to be ironed out, my anxiety continued to grow as the return date approached.  The thought of walking in the front doors and facing my co-workers, friends, and peers was more than  I could handle.  Though at this point I still hadn't really come to understand my alcoholism, I had worked for 8 years in sales and management at a major liquor and spirits store.   I think I probably knew, even at this point, that returning to work in the beverage industry was probably going to significantly deter my recovery, but I was desperate to get my normal life back.  So, I assured everyone I was ready, put a smile on my face, and quietly disappeared into my own anxiety and misery while counting down the days until my return.  The day before returning to work, the anxiety had reached it's peak level.  I decided that drinking would be the only thing that could get me through the anxiety, so I went on a bender.  

I cannot remember how much I drank or even exactly what I drank during the day, but it was enough for me to pass out and spend my entire day in a drunken slumber on the couch.  My drinking was not to have fun anymore, it was to escape.  I was scared to go back to work.  I was scared to talk on the phone, interact with other people, or even go outside.  I drank so I would pass out and dream.  In my dreams, I was free from the burden which was/is my life.  Unfortunately, there were times when I would wake up.  The Breaking Bad marathon I had planned for the day was five episodes ahead of my last memory.  After taking the dogs out, I was faced with the stark realization that my last day was ending before going back to work.  I could no longer hide in my condo, with the lights off alone.   I couldn't stop shaking and I felt as if my heart was pounding out of my chest.  Melissa was going to be home soon and my world was going to end, because I knew I would have to tell her I couldn't go back to work.

Melissa had bought a bottle of white wine with a dachshund on it.   She hadn't intended to drink it, rather display it in an endearing manner on our bar as only an owner and lover of a dachshund would.  I didn't care that it wasn't meant to be consumed, or that it would upset her that I drank it, or really about anything other to calm down.  But even after drinking that decorative bottle, my anxiety was still there.  

Melissa got home, and she busted me, again.  She was very calm and was proud of me for being truthful about drinking.   She even called my friends to push back our fantasy football draft that was scheduled for the evening.  I couldn't have felt any lower.  Earlier I had drank some alcohol my nephew (who lives with us) had left in the fridge, and I was very concerned that he would be upset with me for drinking it.  Melissa saw my anxiety, and agreed to go to the store to replace it for me so I would not feel so bad.  But her understanding made me feel worse.  I think I just wanted her to leave, so I could go back to feeling bad, on my own.

I don't think I intended to kill myself.  I think I was just...done.  I was too tired to fight.  As soon as she was gone, I went into the bathroom and took a handful or so of the pills that my psychiatrist gave me to help with moments of extreme panic.  I then made my way over to our bar and drank as much gin as I could.  I flopped back down on the couch and that was it.  I have glimpses of what happened next, but nothing concrete enough to be a lucid memory.  I woke up in the ER.  I had an IV in and no clothes on besides a hospital gown.  My wife wasn't there.  I cried...an I had no idea what time it was.  Around six am I came back around, and she was there.  This would be the second time in three weeks I would end up hospitalized.  I wanted to die, and I had to face that I had tired to harm myself the night before.  I wanted to escape to the dream world that existed when I was passed out.  I was tired of feeling like a failure, living in fear.   I had been isolating for a week and I was over it.  Life held nothing more to me in the way I felt at that time.  Going to the hospital again is still, despite other things that have occurred since, still my bottom to this point. 

Want to read Melissa's side of the story?  http://www.lifeimpaired.com/2/post/2014/02/things-that-stop-you-dreaming.html

It’s odd that I cannot remember what I did the night before I went into the hospital.  I woke up around 1:30 in the morning in a panic.  My heart was racing, my breathing was quick, and thoughts were racing through my head.  Waking up in the middle of the night had become the normal for me, but it was always brutal.  I tossed and turned and broke out into cold sweats.  In order to allow Melissa to sleep I moved to the couch.  My mind was everywhere.  In the night, when you are alone with your thoughts, it’s easier to focus on all the negative aspects of my past, the unknown future, and the failure I was.  I thought I was an evil person, a liar, a bad employee, a terrible and absent husband, a bad friend.  I thought the world,would be better without me. 

Physically I was a wreck.  My muscles were in spasm, I was sweating, I could not keep still, my head pounded, and I was physically ill.  There was nothing to come up but bile.  I was so afraid to make noise that I was gagging into a plastic cup.  Anytime I drank water, I threw it right back up.  I was going crazy.  I kept repeating numbers and sayings through my head.  I could no longer live like this.  I set a hard deadline of 7am as my moment of choice.  I knew I could either throw myself in front of the train on my way to work or cut my wrists.  It began getting light and I snuck into the bedroom to say goodbye.  The knives in the kitchen were not sharp enough and I started crying.  I was going to have to face part of my day. 

I snuck back into my bed and waited for the alarm.  It went off and it was time to start my day.  I showered and waited for Melissa to get in after me.  I tried to drink some coffee and threw up into the sink.  I was crying again, and I had already begun sweating.  My hands were shaking and all I wanted was to slip back into oblivion; the place where I am floating half unconscious between life and death.  There are no thoughts, rules, or responsibilities.  Melissa got out of the bathroom and I was standing in the bedroom.  She asked what was wrong and I said I couldn’t do it anymore.  She was very confused as to what I couldn’t “do” anymore.  Things happened quickly, though, once she came to understand as she believed me.  I think she sensed the desperation. 

Much of this is a blur but I could not stop shaking even as we walked to the hospital.  There I was admitted and had to tell everyone that I wanted to take my own life.  My blood pressure was almost 200/140.  They gave me pills and said I needed to relax.  A nurse gave me a pep talk saying he was an alcoholic and everyone had their own shit to deal with.  He told me every day was a struggle.  I didn’t really understand the complexity of that statement at that point.  I called into work and started crying.  We were only a few blocks from our house and I was on suicide watch, meaning someone had to sit in my room at all times.  Melissa was able to go home as a result and bring me some things.  I read an entire Harry Potter book, ate a coconut popsicle and read the paper.  This was the first watcher I had, and he reported what I was doing every 15 minutes. 

Because the state of Illinois had recently cut some of their mental health budgets, it took a long time to find me a bed in another hospital since they did not have a psychiatric unit in the hospital where I went to the ER.  This was not something I had even thought about.  I was starting to learn about so many things that I never anticipated ever knowing.  They were going to transfer me to a suburb of the city, as long as they had a bed and I was medically clear for transport.  Melissa had remained very calm, but this was very upsetting to her, as we were city people through and through.  We didn’t even own a car. 

I was worried the substances I was given would make it impossible for me to transport.  I was given more pills and was totally fucked up.  As more people came into the ER, we were moved jnto a hallway.  We were in an ER in the middle of a very urban neighborhood in the middle of Chicago, and some of the people we witnessed coming in and out were in such precarious situations that it made me think twice about my own. I ate chicken noodle soup, ending three months of being a vegetarian.  I felt already dead.  I didn’t have to do anything and people did everything for me, plus the drugs were great.  We even had a few good laughs as I started to descend into the drugs.  I felt like a failure, but Melissa seemed concerned about my well-being. 

I had vacation time and health care.  I was going to get better.  I was going to get a vacation and people were going to take care of me.  Nothing but reading, three meals and a TV in my own room.  I was stoked.  I was optimistic when they put me in an ambulance to the suburbs.  I thought it was stupid but I was wearing a hospital gown, why couldn’t I wear my own clothes again?  We got to the hospital and I was wheeled to the psychiatric unit.  On the door, read a sign that said “These doors do not open – elopement risks inside.”  It was then that the gravity of the situation started to hit me and Melissa.  I was met outside the doors by a very nice, but stern man.  He asked if I was going to volunteer to admit myself.  What the fuck is that – I had no idea?  If not, they were going to get the police involved?  So many thoughts raced through my mind.  I have to stay behind locked doors?  My wife has to leave?  I can’t wear shoes?  I can’t have a book because it could be used as a weapon?  I can’t wear shoes or clothes or strings? I have to share a room with someone else who was admitted, possibly not voluntarily?  I cried.  I have never cried so hard.  I was so afraid.  This was not the break I thought I would be getting, and I did not feel I was in a safe place.  People were acting crazy in the ward…it was the crazy ward.  The stem man with the kind eyes gave Melissa and I some extra time, but eventually she had to leave.  He asked if I wanted something to help me sleep.  I balked.  He said take it.  The look in his eyes said it all.  I popped the pills and almost immediately got drowsy.  I feel asleep crying.

Want to read Melissa's side of the story?  http://www.lifeimpaired.com/2/post/2014/01/d-day.html