By Andrew Turman
Trigger Warning: Suicide
This article was originally published August 2017.
To set the scene: my Daddy’s birthday is the ninth of July. By the first of August of last year, I was in a full blown psychotic depression, my first. To let you know how bad things were, let me say that the whole space-time continuum had warped on me. Somehow, Rebecca would go to the store and return home before she actually left. Not really, but it was truth in my mind. I could not even do simple math, nor could I operate a calculator. I was psychotically depressed.
Symptoms of a psychotic depression include the symptoms of a major depressive episode, along with one or more psychotic symptoms, including delusions and/or hallucinations. Delusions can be classified as mood congruent or incongruent, depending on whether or not the nature of the delusions is in keeping with the individual’s mood state. Common themes of mood congruent delusions include guilt, punishment, personal inadequacy, or disease. Half of patients experience more than one kind of delusion. Delusions occur without hallucinations in about one-half to two-thirds of patients with psychotic depression. Hallucinations can be auditory, visual, olfactory (smell), or haptic (touch). Severe anhedonia, loss of interest, and psychomotor retardation are typically present. [Source: Wikipedia.]
This describes my experience perfectly. I was wracked with guilt about my role in my father’s dying day. I felt I deserved to be punished. I believed I could not perform the simplest tasks and that I was doomed to a life of despair. I shambled down the hall to the bathroom, when I was absolutely forced to get out of bed. I did not take care of myself; I did not bathe, brush my teeth, or change my clothes. I was a wreck, a shell of my usual self. I could not operate my phone or tarry on Fakebook. I was incommunicado, radio silent.
This manifested itself in my most personal relationship as well, the relationship with my wife. I would cringe when spoken to and would try to anticipate what was said to me so I could proffer an appropriate response. I just wanted silence. But the silence was violent, in my head. I was thinking of ways to die ...
I finally decided I would overdose on my medications. On August 1, 2016, my prescriptions were refilled. I had twice the lethal dose of my meds. So I took them all. Every pill in the house. Rebecca had gone to sleep. I lay awake to fulfill my destiny. I found a program from my father’s memorial service at church. I wrapped myself in the bathrobe my father died in. I unscrewed the medication bottles as I screwed up the courage to take their contents. With as little water as possible, to maximize the impact of the drugs, I faced my doom. I had done the internet research. I would have succeeded, had the meds not interfered with each other and prevented my body taking a lethal seizure. I woke up in Frederick Memorial Hospital the next day.
Let’s back up. Rebecca was totally worried about me and the state of my mental health. Often during the days preceding this event, she would “check-in” with me, to see how I was feeling. I flat out lied to her, assuring her that I was okay, not thinking about suicide, everything was fine. Little did she know when she kissed me goodnight, I was planning to take my own life.
When she woke up, she found me unresponsive. She did not know what to do. It took the urgent warnings from a dear friend to force her to call 911. While she waited for the ambulance to arrive to transport me to the hospital, in her frustration and anger, she shaved my eyebrows. (I showed her, though, because in the psych ward I found a Sharpie, and drew them back. Talk about looking crazy!)
I make jokes about it because I have to. It is how I deal with such a serious topic. Rebecca felt anger at my decision to leave her alone. In my twisted thinking, I thought I was doing her a favor, that she would be better off without me, that all her problems would be solved (when in actuality, they would only be beginning).
In the week I spent in the psych ward, not once did ANYONE ask me why I did it. That is one of the problems in the mental health system today. Even professionals do not know how to talk to people who are suffering.
Rebecca was angry. But the underlying issue was one of loss, betrayal. I had betrayed her trust, I had lied to her. I felt no one, not even she, could understand me and my feelings. My situation is by no means unique. Hundreds of people a day around the world choose death over life.
The solution is communication. Now, my wife and I are more honest with each other; she about her concern, me about my true feelings. All of us need to stop fearing talking about the real issues at hand. It is literally the difference between life and death.
About the Author
W.A. Turman was an “Army Brat,” and that explains a lot. Man of no accent, but also of every accident. Life has not always been easy for the artist and writer we affectionately call “Zen Daddy T.” A gonzo journalist along the lines of Hunter S. Thompson, an artist well-versed in the school of Ralph Steadman, including favoring beers from the Flying Dog Brewery, Andrew is an acquired taste. His abstract expressionist works bleed protest and contentment. His recent series, “Art for Airports” has drawn critical acclaim. Here are his stats: hospitalizations—88; medications—75; suicide attempts—6; ECT treatments—98.
He can be contacted via his blog, on Facebook (Andrew Turman and Zen Daddy T), Instagram (zendaddyt), and Twitter (@ZenTurman).
This was so real. It helps the reader to understand the thinking and feeling during this time. My only objection is to the last paragraph. Yes, communication is the answer but did you resolve the issue so easily? It seems like it would take many conversations to regain trust. Those conversations could be the focus of many essays. I would be interested in reading a he said/she said piece or two in the future. How does the relationship survive an attempted suicide and go on to thrive?
ReplyDeleteThank you or this. I think this is important to share.
ReplyDeleteFeel free, just credit me....
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