The Event Horizon

In recognition of May being Mental Health Month, I have begun to delve a bit deeper into my fraught relationship with depression. The following is an excerpt from my forthcoming book BAP, Interrupted.

I was lying in a bed shivering and didn’t care. It was dark because the blinds were closed and I heard voices passing outside my door. There was no one there that I knew. After a lifetime of dodging, hedging, explaining, softening, worrying, crying, fixing, hurting and placating I had lost feeling. I knew that I was alive, but I didn’t feel human. I imagined myself a zygote with the hang-ups and defects from my parent’s DNA already in place. I wanted to believe that I was destined to come to that place; that my own actions were of no consequence. I breathed deeply and inhaled the sweet, pungent scent of denial. I was unable to move. So I just lay there, devoid of everything. It was a curious state to be in. I liked it. I thought, "Maybe I’ll lie here for another couple of months. Or years."

By the time I ended up in the hospital I was dangerously near the Event Horizon: the line of demarcation between the velvety darkness of the black hole of death and the muggy grey of the vast universe of just making it. I don't remember the details of my stay, just the daily routine.

Meds. Eat. Sleep. Group Therapy. Eat. Sleep. Meds. Sleep.

I welcomed the peace to sleep whenever I wanted but it slowly dawned on me that the more I slept, the more likely the doctor would want me to remain hospitalized. Slow progress was no progress and although the respite was wonderful, I had to get out.