A Side trip to the Pit

I had another one of the dreams. I'm home, and she's missing. A friend of ours seems to know where she is, but she won't tell me. I'm very angry in the dream, yelling at the friend, demanding to know where my wife is. Eventually, I woke up, still very angry. I laid there, calmed down, and went back to sleep. But the dream resumed, pretty much where it left off. I get some info from the friend, and head out to find my wife. It seems everyone I meet knows what's going on, but are determined to stop me from getting to her. I wake up again, even more angry. I fall back asleep, and *again* the dream picks up where it left off. This happens about 5 or 6 times, and each time, I get closer to finding her, and get more angry, frustrated, desperate. I finally track her down, and find out she's having an affair (hey, at least she's not trying to kill herself!). I'm screaming at her..."After all I've done for you, all the support I've given you, this is how you treat me? What's he give you that I can't, a hard &#@??" And she just smiles at me, suppressing a giggle, and nods her head. I jolt awake, and its about 5:00am. I decide I've had enough of that, and get out of bed.

I spent the rest of the day feeling real crappy, due to lack of sleep, and the lingering anger and frustration from the dream. That day at work, I was real short-tempered, snapping at people, being pretty rude. I had a confrontation with a co-worker and really flew off the handle. I eventually had to take it to a superior, and felt like I was ratting the guy out, but I was at the end of my rope with the situation. It was very stressful, and afterwards I felt even worse. The next day, I get a call from my sister, and she starts slamming me about some personal stuff. Its pretty intense, and it totally saps my energy just to keep talking to her. She's bringing up issues that have festered for years, and I just can't take it. I'm sincerely sorry, but mostly I'm just beaten to a pulp emotionally. By the time I get to work, I have trouble even getting out of the truck. I've had 3 really intense emotional slams in just 24 hours, and I feel like I have nothing left. Its a major effort just to say Hi to people.

By the time I get home, I'm practically a zombie. I crash on the sofa, and spend an hour literally staring at the ceiling. I have no appetite, no energy, no motivation to do anything but lay there, thinking how nice it would be to just dissolve away. Sleep that night isn't much, lots of tossing and turning, but at least no dreams. I'm up by 4:00 am. I wander around the house 'till its time to go to work, and spend the day going through the motions. It's almost 6:30pm, and I realize somehow I'm still at work. I get home, and she's at her weekly group session. I decide to start filling her weekly prescription doses in the little plastic box. As I'm filling the days with her pills, I start thinking how easy it would be to just chew a handful, then another, and another. It's tempting. I think of the other meds in the safe, and which ones would pack the most punch. Finally. I realize what a fool I'm being, and tell myself to quit the pity-party. But the next morning, I'm shaving, and the razor is dull. Its scraping across my cheeks and necks, stinging. But instead of getting a new one, I keep shaving, going over the same spots, in a sick way enjoying how much it hurts. I start thinking of going to get another tattoo, just so I could feel that pain again. Maybe they could just tattoo me water, so there'd be no permanent marks. Yeah, that's a good idea. Hell, I could just get a sewing needle and do it myself. That way I wouldn't have to pay anybody...

It goes on like this for most of the day. The thoughts don't linger, lasting just a minute here and there, but they come several times, and it makes me mad that I can't keep them from coming back. I realize I'm largely just feeling sorry for myself, and as bothered as I am, I'm still sure deep down that this phase will pass. But another part of me worries that, as she's getting better, I seem to be falling apart....

Last night I dreamed I was dying

I've been having these disturbing dreams lately, about 6 of them so far. The specific circumstances are different, but they all revolve around the same theme. She's determined to kill herself, and she finds a way to ensure I can't stop her. In an earlier post I mentioned one about driving off a bridge... in another, she has me arrested for abuse, and as the cops are dragging me away, she's standing in the door, smiling at me, because she knows she's won. In each one, she's smiling or laughing as I realize what she's about to do, and that I can't stop her. That's the part that lingers: the glee in her eyes when she knows she's finally going to succeedd in killing herself. Each time I jolt awake, my heart pounding, short of breath, sometime even sweating. Doesn't take Freud to figure out what these are all about, does it?

But this most recent one troubled me even more. In it, I had caught her in the act of trying to O.D. and had grabbed the pills away from her. Instead of putting them away, I guess I decided in that weird dream-logic way that she'd only be safe if I took them...literally. I swallowed all the pills she had, thinking this would be the only way to keep them away from her. I went back into the room she was in and just told her I had gotten rid of them. In the dream, I started to feel the effects of the drugs. Light-headed, then sleepy. It was actually kinda nice. I laid on the floor, and felt myself drifting away. She was there, but didn't realize what was happening, just thought I was going to sleep. I drifted further and further away, and suddenly realized that this wasn't something I was going to come back from. I was really dying. I started to panic, then tried to fight it off. Her voice was getting fainter, and inside my head I heard myself screaming for help. I felt cold, and started to shiver. I kept thinking to myself, "She doesn't know. How can I make her understand. She needs to do something! She can't just let me lay here and die." And I kept thinking it was so cold...so cold. I was panicked, but couldn't do anything about it, couldn't drag myself away from death. I slipped further and further, and started crying. What an idiot! What was I thinking? My thoughts raced in a circle of shame for what I had done, panic that I couldn't stop it, pity for what she'd go through when she realized the truth, horror at the thought of actually dying, and over and over I kept thinking "I'm so cold. Why does dying have to be so cold?" I felt myself take what felt like my last breath....and finally jolted awake.

The air conditioner was on, and the ceiling fan was blowing cold air straight down on us. It wasn't just in my dream...I really *was* cold. But instead of being relieved that it was just a dream, I was even more scared of the intense feeling the dream left me with, and that the cold was reminding me of. The desolation, the loneliness, the hopelessness... I couldn't shake the lingering feelings, even laying there an hour later. I finally got up and walked around the dark house for a while, checked on the dogs, got a drink. Eventually I got tired enough that went back to bed and managed to fall asleep. But even today, the feelings of dread are still with me. I hope I can shake them soon...

...and then there were six...

Attempt 6 was ugly. Not physically (i.e no blood, no ambulances), but emotionally. It took me places the previous attempts hadn't.

It was a week after we got back from the camping trip. She was really down, it had been a hard week for her. The same recurring issues at work, and now, because she's only working part-time, she's worried about our money situation as well. But the kicker this time was her therapist. She sees her twice a week, on Tuesday nights in a group setting, and on Thursdays one-one-one. The group session are always hard for her...she has to deal with her social phobia issues, as well as talk about the other things she working on, so it's a double-whammy. The group sessions do her a lot of good, overall, but they really take it out of her.

Anyway, this particular Tuesday, she had an emotional group session, and as the group was breaking up, her therapist, H, came over, gave her a big hug and said, "So, I'll see you tomorrow." Unfortunately, this was wrong. Normally she sees her again on Thursday, not Wednesday, and H was leaving for vacation Wednesday afternoon, so the regular Thursday sessions was cancelled. It was a simple mistake; H had just forgotten the details, but in my wife's head, all these mistakes were combined into a big rejection. Never mind the fact that H had just hugged her and praised her for the positive work she had done in group... in her mind, the facts that 1) H was leaving for a week, 2) H didn't remember that the Thursday appointment was cancelled, and 3) H was leaving for week (listed twice, for emphasis) all combined to make her feel like just another name in an appointment book, a case to be filed away for a week while H took a vacation. She has rejection and abandonment issues, as well as having a hard time trusting people. All these things hit her at once, and she was....devastated. (I know, that seems like a strong word for what, to you and me seems a minor misunderstanding, but the nature of her issues gives this kind of situation immense power to drag her deeper into her depression. Devastated is not an overstatement).

By the weekend, this had piled up, and she was feeling the pressure. She came into the computer room where I was working, and we talked for a while about things. I tried to be calm, understanding, sympathetic, rational... all the things I usually try. At one point I said to her, "I know that what happened Tuesday feels like H rejected you, but can you at least step back from the situation far enough to see, rationally, that it probably wasn't the case, that H didn't really reject you, and that its more about your interpretation than actual facts?" I was stunned when she answered "No. I can't see that."

I tried not to get too wrapped up in it, letting her have some space, and keeping some space for my own sanity (Thank you, D!). We talked some more, and she started to calm down, seemed to turn a corner. She said she felt better, and was going to go downstairs to "do some homework", i.e. write in her journal, read some of her support books, try to get back on track. I thought this was a great idea, and took it as a good sign.

Within 5 minutes, my mind kicked into paranoia mode. "What's she doing? Is she OK? What was that noise? Did she buy another gun? Should I go down there?" Meanwhile, the other side of my brain is saying, "Calm down. She's OK. Don't let your imagination run away with you. You're overly sensitive. She's fine. Keep working. Focus. Stop being so paranoid." After about 15 minutes of this, my nerves were shot. My hands were shaking, my stomach was in knots, I couldn't focus on what I was doing. I fought every urge to check up on her. Another 5 minutes went by, and then I heard one of our 4 dogs barking.

Our dogs are all house dogs, and they follow thier "Mommy" around constantly. One in particular is a real momma's-boy, and this is the one that started barking. I could tell from his bark he was upset; it was his "I can't get to where mommy is" bark. (Those of you without dogs may think this is my imagination, but if you have dogs, you'll know that you can tell a lot from thier bark). I waited another minute or two, pacing the room, trying to get myself under control, but it was no use. The barking assured me that *something* wasn't right, and I had to go down there.

I got to the bottom of the steps and saw the door to the guest bedroom closed. It's usually always open. Panic was in full swing by now, and when I tried the knob and found the door locked, I went over the edge. Previously, when she had locked herself in the bathroom, I calmly went and got a paper-clip to pop the lock open. No such control this time. I took two steps back and kicked the door right next to the knob with everything I had. The lock was pretty flimsy, and the door flew open, but the room was empty. I went in to find that the bathroom door also closed. I tried the knob, and wasn't surprised to find it locked as well. I banged with my fists, and went into a rage. "You open this f***in' door right now!" I screamed. I waited all of maybe two seconds, then started wailing on the door. I kicked it once...nothing. A second time...trinkets started falling out of the display box on the wall, but the door didn't budge. I kicked a third time and actually cracked the door near the knob, but the lock held. By now I was insane with rage. I think I may mave been grunting/yelling the way some tennis players do when they serve, just a gutteral release of anger. I kicked a forth time and heard more wood splintering. The fifth kick actually split the door frame from the latch down to the floor, and the door flew open.

I remember there were some candles burning, and there was an open beer on the counter. Next to the beer were all her prescription bottles, open, lined up like little soldiers. Her journal was there, open, a pen laying beside it. She had made herself a little nest/deathbed on the floor with a bunch of pillows and blankets. She was standing in the middle of the room, a drink in one hand and a fistful of pills in the other. I don't know what I expected her expression to be, but the blank stare on her face only added fuel to my rage. I lost total control of myself and just started screaming at her. "You are NOT gonna f***in' do this to me again! What the f*** is this for? I can't believe you're f***in' doing this!! I refuse to let this happen again! This is the last f***in' time!"....and so on like that.

I usually don't swear much, and I probably used the f-word more times in that first 60 seconds than I had in the last year. The whole time she just stood there with a blank stare. I think I grabbed the pills from her hand, but maybe she put them back in the bottle herself. I don't remember if she tried to speak or not...I wasn't listening anyway. I don't recall how we got upstairs, but the next thing I remember was standing at the kitchen, yelling at her to "get your f***in' shoes on, I'm taking you to the hospital!"

"Please don't take me there!". She was crying by now.
"You're going! I don't know what else to do with you!"
"I don't want to go!"
"The only choice you have it whether to go barefoot or not. Now either get your f***in shoes on or go out to truck without 'em, I don't really care which."

I gathered up all her pills, her journal, and her purse. I picked up the address book cuz I knew I'd have to make some calls to the family. Then I grabbed a jacket for her (it was a little cloudy that day, and I sure couldn't take her out without a raincoat, could I? Jeez, the way our brains work....) I grabbed my keys, opened the door and practically pushed her out. She was crying pretty heavily, as scared as I was mad. She got in the truck and I slammed the door shut. I backed out of the driveway way too fast, and remember being amazed that my tires actually squealed when I put it in drive. I got out to the main road and realized I had forgotten my cell phone, so I u-turned back to the house. I got out, then thought I better bring her in with me so I could keep an eye on her. "Get out of the f***in' truck and come with me!". She was still crying, but I think she thought we were going back to the house because I had changed my mind. I'm ashamed to admit now that I was happy she thought that, because it would make going back out that much harder for her. Phone in hand, back out to the truck, more squealing tires, and we're on our way.

It's about 20 minutes to the hospital from our house. I think I drove it in about 12 minutes. I'm amazed I actually took the time to stop at one of the two traffic lights on the way. And the whole time, I kept up my verbal assault. I wanted to pummel her with my voice.

"You know what I want to know? What the f*** did I ever do to deserve this from you? What have I ever done that was so awful that you want to hurt me this way, over and over?"
"It's not you, it's me. I don't do it to hurt you"
"I don't f***in' belive you. Why should believe a single f***in' thing you say? Of course you do it to hurt me. There's no other explanation."
"But I love you, I'd never try to hurt you intentionally."
"I don't believe you."
"But its the truth!"
"Here's what I learned from you. Truth doesn't really matter. The only thing that really matters is how I feel, how I choose to interpret things. If I feel like you do it on purpose, that's all that matters, facts be damned. That's what you've taught me."

We finally got to the hospital, adn I got out of the truck. She got out her side and started walking towards the road.
"Where the f*** do you think you're going?"
"I'm going home!"
"What are you gonna do, walk 20 miles back?"
"But I don't want to go in there!"
"I don't give a sh** what you want, you don't have a choice!"

I grabbed her wrist (probably too hard) and literally started dragging her towards the door. She was pulling back, like a dog that doesn't want to go to the vet. I pulled harder, still yelling at her. I noticed there was an ambulance up ahead, and two big, burly EMT's were watching what was going on. "You either come in with me, or I'm gonna go get those two guys to pick your sorry a** up and carry you in there!" I made sure I said it loud enough for them to hear. She knew I wasn't bluffing, and started walking on her own.

We got into the emergency room, and I almost felt like people would greet us by name. "Hey! Nice to see you again! The usual?" I filled out the paperwork, and we waited in the foyer for them to call her in for admittance. She kept asking if I thought they'd let her go home, rather than admit her. "I hope not" was all I could say. They took her vitals, and we walked down to the emergency room proper. They gave her a hospital gown, and after awhile the nurse came in with a 16-ounce foam cup willed with an activated charcoal slurry for her to drink. This is supposed to absord the drugs that were still in her stomach. The first time she tried to OD, they handed her the cup and I told her it was a big chocolate shake. She was so out of it that she drank it down in about 20 seconds, slurping up every last drop. Not so lucky this time. She knew what it was and had to force herself to swallow it. It took a couple minutes, but she eventually got most of it down. She laid back and closed her eyes, trying to get some sleep. I went into one of the waiting rooms to start making phone calls.

I was gone maybe 20 minutes, and when I got back, there were several nurses with her, and a woman from housekeeping with a mop and bucket. Turns out she had goot sick and vomited all the nasty black charcoal back up, all over herself, the bed, and the floor. I just stood there, wondering what else could happen, feeling pretty numb by this point. I just wanted this all to be over, to go back home and not have to deal with any more crisis. I sat in the chair next to her bed, stroking her hair. After everyhting was cleaned up, they left one of the nurse-helpers in the room with her, to keep an eye on here. She wanted to talk, but I didn't have the energy. I think we sat there for another hor or so before they finally came to wheel her down to the Behavioral Sciences ward.

I went with her to the ward, but its a locked facility, so I couldn't go in. We said goodby in the lobby. She was crying again, and apologizing. I don't think I had any emotions at all. I was drained by the fury I had felt, and just wanted to go home and sleep. I kissed her, assured her I would be back for visiting hours that night, and would remember to bring her some clothes. She asked me to please bring her Bible, too. I said I would, hoping she'd find some comfort in it, wondering where I might find some too.