Life Support

For the last nine months I have struggled to write meaningfully and intelligently about Shannon's death, but intelligence and meaning elude me. I want to give a name to what grief and loss feel like, but all words disappoint me: none are good enough. I want to work out in my own mind how to learn to be alone and move forward, but I see only here and now. The future is a concept I don't really believe in any more. I fight for meaning or reason or anything that makes sense, and I end up where I started: confused and psychically mute, unable to speak because I have nothing to say.

I have diversions enough that keep me from wallowing in the psychic void where pain lives. Work keeps me busy, although I find it increasingly irrelevant except as a way to generate honest cash. I care about doing a good job, but that's more a manifestation of neurotic perfectionism than anything else. Managing my health takes more time that it ever has, but I've never had surgery or a blood clot before. It takes time and slows me down, but I don't want to die or live with complications of a mismanaged surgical recovery. I see and talk to friends and family who are always there if I need them, but they generally give me the space I asked for while I try to rebuild my life.

And that is where I hit the wall: rebuilding. How do I do it? Where do I begin? What do I want it to look like? Are my best days behind me? What happens now?

I'll be 46 on Friday, but I am as unsure of myself as I was when I was a teenager starting college. Less sure of myself, to be honest. Back then, I was too naive to understand that I didn't know everything. I didn't have the weight of life and experience tugging me down. I can't think clearly about anything that isn't immediate these days.

I have maintained enough sanity, however, to realize that I was on the edge of an abyss, staring down into its eternal darkness. If I teetered and fell, I might or might not be able to claw my way out. Through my clouded perceptions, I could see that fact clearly. It's happened before, and even the prospect of it happening again scared me to my bones.

It scared me so bad that I called my doctor to talk about “mental health issues”. I told him about the abyss and my fear of falling. To my surprise, he listened and believed me. I spoke honestly and even cried a little. And he listened.

The long and short of it is that Celexa (an antidepressant) is now a part of my nightly pill regimen that also includes a blood thinner and blood pressure medicine. The last two are supposed to prolong and safeguard my life, and the first is supposed to help make me care about it again.

He's a good doctor, and I'm fortunate to be his patient.

It's been a couple of weeks, and I'm thinking a little more clearly, but not always. The crazy pills take 21 days or so to reach full impact, so we'll see where I am on clarity in a week or so. Somewhere, deep inside me, there's a will to live. A lust for happiness, in whatever form that might take. That part of me isn't dead, but it's on life support.