You know how people say things like, “Being The One is like being in love – you just know. Balls to bones.”
Okay, maybe the only time anyone said that was in The Matrix (or quoting The Matrix), but you get my point. Some things, you just know. And whereas the other day I was in a state of limbo re: do I really want to live or not? I’ve come to a conclusion. For now, anyway.
Yes, yes I do.
And perhaps in perfect opposite style of my last post, the way I came to this was thanks to a little help from my friends. I had thought that I had to make myself an island but my post, my video, was my one last flare being sent up, saying, “Please help me!” I didn’t expect a rescue effort. I assumed everyone was used to and sick of my shit – assuming they saw it at all. Truth be told, only one person reached out to me. But that one person was all it took.
They literally called me. As soon as they saw my video, they picked up the phone and actually called me. You wanna know the last time someone called me that wasn’t my immediate family or a debt collector? February 8th. The call lasted 18 seconds. It was probably like, “Where are you?” or “Sorry I butt-dialed you,” because people still do that.
When I came back from retreat, I had written that I wanted to try and call people more instead of texting. I have called someone once since then. It’s obnoxious how hard it is to deprogram this but I’m at the point now where I feel like I’m inconveniencing someone by asking them to take the time to talk to me. How fucked up is that?!
So in the spirit of rejecting my self-assigned isolation, I’m going to try and reach out more even if the fear of rejection is hot in my throat. Because I guess people care. Even though it wasn’t in response to me saying I want to die, I still received wonderful support from two friends last night. Long story short, I accidentally took my blood pressure medicine a second time. In classic Carly style, this triggered some good ol’ fashioned * airhorn noise * HEALTH ANXIETYYYY. At first I thought they wouldn’t respond to me. Instead, they gave me suggestions and words of encouragement. I was proven wrong again. They cared. They cared enough to try and help me even though honestly, there was probably nothing wrong.
Nicholas asked me, “Isn’t this basically the reverse of what happened last time?” referring to my ER visit due to my abnormally high BP. I nodded, irritated with myself. It should be pretty simple. Take one pill every day. Don’t take anything that interferes with said pill. Rinse, repeat. How dumb am I?
But looking at it now, I realize that this return of my panic was also the return of my will to survive. Plenty of anxiety-inducing things happened in between my ambulance ride and yesterday but I hadn’t reacted to them due to my apathy towards living. I am either depressed or anxious, never both at once. They generally fill up each other’s cup, but they do not exist equally at the same time. They are polar ends of a spectrum upon which I am constantly sliding violently back and forth on. In theory, their balance means that I am asymptomatic of either state. Unfortunately, this is an incredibly difficult balance to maintain.
Either way, my recent panic attacks seem to serve as the bookends of my current suicidal period. Something about that phone call genuinely flipped a switch in my brain, reminded me that “wow, people actually do give a shit, they’re not just texting me or whatever to absolve their guilt.” Because words without tone can be so easily swept aside. Words without the actual time commitment, the real effort, seem to mean so little to someone who’s all but lost interest in everything. So if you want to help a suicidal person, sound like you care. Actually call them. Because it makes a real difference.
And even though he’s not very good at checking my blog (but apparently is subscribed to my YouTube channel! lol): thank you, Michael. Thank you for spending ten minutes with me to convince me my life was worth saving.