The feeling can't be identified. It's not a pain; it's not an ache. It's not sorrow, or anguish, or despair. It's just… nothing. Nothingness. To feel something – anything – would be infinitely preferable. Anything is preferable to this void.
Going through the motions, day in and day out, is getting irritating. Its one thing to pretend to the world that everything's sunshine and roses, when the reality is much darker. Mild relief comes through self-punishment – beating up on the punching bag, running until the lactic acid feels fiery and corrosive, drinking copious amounts of alcohol until the scenery blurs into one. It all works, and doesn't work, at the same time. The mood swings were phenomenal, to say the least. One minute the adrenaline would be pumping, the next there'd be tears and an awful comedown. It's difficult to deal with, nearly impossible to ignore and yet denial was still the most effective tool. The happy mask is firmly in place each and every day, only coming off in those precious few hours of solitude.
People judge so quickly when it comes to this sort of thing. There's always the same sentiments – I had no idea, I didn't see this coming, how could this happen… same old, same old. To those closest, there's the inevitable rage that this could happen right under their nose, then sorrow, occasionally swinging to hurt and dismay before eventually acceptance. Then they start to think about the past, and the pieces slowly start coming together. The times when a laugh wasn't quite so forthcoming. The days when the hangovers were more pronounced. The lack of interest in usually enjoyable activities. The recriminations begin around this time. Why didn't I do something? Why didn't I know? The blame game goes on for a little while, sometimes years, but eventually it gets put to the back of the mind.
There are so many ways to do this. Some people say that it's the most unforgiveable deed, an incredibly selfish act, but it never seems like that at the time. The darkness is smothering, like a heavy down blanket in the middle of summer, and eventually the desire to break free is overwhelming. There's a moment of guilt but it gets pushed to one side. Nothing is going to get in the way now. The pills taste bitter, but that is nothing compared to the bitterness of the mind. Lying back, eyes closed and ignoring the terrified tremors running throughout my body, I wait.
Something isn't right. This isn't working the way it was supposed to. I am supposed to be drifting off to sleep peacefully. My stomach is rebelling – it doesn't like this recent turn of events. I force everything to stay down. They can't do their job if they're vomited back up. There's someone banging at my door, begging and pleading me to answer them. I glance around the room fuzzily and instantly wish I hadn't. The urge to vomit becomes irresistible and everything comes straight back up. I begin to choke and try and sit up.
I'm afraid. Actually, I'm terrified. This was not part of the plan. There's not supposed to be any of this… this mess, this pain. The tears roll down my face when the enormity of the situation hits me. We've worked dozens of suicides, but until now I never realised just how big of a deal this is. And I'm scared. I try to get off the couch but fall onto the floor. I'm still retching and heaving, even though there's nothing left to come up. The last thing I see before I black out is his face. His tears. His pain.
I don't remember being in the ambulance. I don't remember being ushered into the emergency room. I don't remember the doctors and nurses coming and checking me over several times. I don't remember the psychiatric consult or the social worker. It's all a blur. All I can do is cry. I see his face over and over in my mind's eye, and sob. I cry for everything that has happened, everything that I have done or have had done to me, for everyone I love and everyone I have hurt. I hate myself for crying, for feeling this way, but it's impossible not to. I hate myself for doing this to them – to him. I feel lower than low and wish that they would just leave me alone to die.
He's sitting in the hospital room with me. He hasn't said anything and I wish to God that he would. I wish he would rage at me, scream at me, anything! I could handle that. I cannot handle the way he looks at me with such sympathy and pity. He feels badly, I can tell. His own personal blame game has started. I try to speak but my throat is raw and dry. He understands and brings water to me.
"I'm sorry," I manage to croak. The tears begin to fall from my eyes again; I don't bother to wipe them away. I am beyond exhausted. Emotionally and physically destroyed.
Tears form in his own eyes – the piercing blue that I love. Eyes that can make a suspect squirm or any one of us burst with pride.
"It's okay," he says hoarsely. He gets out of his chair, bones creaking a little after being in such cramped quarters for so long. He sits on the side of my bed and reaches up to stroke my hair.
I shake my head vehemently. "It's not okay, it hasn't been for a long time," I whisper.
He nods; I can see that he understands. He has lived through his own personal hell for many years. "It will be though, honey." He moves his hand down to wipe the tears from my face. "It will be."
I reach up and grasp his hand as tightly as I can manage. After being forced to stand on my own two feet for much of my life; after being abandoned by my own father; after losing my mother, sister, brother… his kindness and love are too much to bear. He senses my inner turmoil but doesn't say anything. He just continues to stroke my hair, as if I were a child. As if I were his child. The dam within me threatens to burst once more, and he gathers me in his arms and cradles me. He rocks me back and forth, allowing me to cry.
"You're too tough for your own good, my Ziver," he murmurs. He continues to rock me, whispering sweet nothings into my ear until the sobs have gone and all that is left is… pain. Sweet, merciful pain. I can feel again. It doesn't feel good. But it feels right.
A/N: this was difficult to write, but oddly cathartic at the same time. It has been 12 months since my last hospitalisation. I have suffered depression for a number of years and for the first time in a very long time I honestly feel back in charge of my life. The black dog is still around, but he's on a damn leash, and I have no intention of letting him run riot anytime soon. Please, please, if you ever suspect that a friend or loved one is having problems, reach out. Even when they block you – which they will – keep pushing, keep reaching. You'll get through to them eventually and they will remember what you did for them.