The Nerve

My apologies, but this is a repost from my Facebook this afternoon. Nothing new to add yet. - C

 

by Chris Chandler on Tuesday, February 1, 2011 at 1:16pm

As of this morning, I have hit the toughest part of recovery. Pure pain, physical, emotional, spiritual, psychological... the process of recovery has been slowly peeling away layers of stuff, continually exposing deeper layers of my psyche - who I am, what I love, what I hate and WHY - it's like having a tooth drilled. You drill out the crap that's eating you and fill it back in with positivity. And sometimes, you hit the nerve. Today, I AM the nerve. I literally feel like one giant raw nerve ending.

My body is trying to respond by making me sleep. Last night, instead of getting work done that I needed to do, or even just taking my klonopin and relaxing, processing... instead I went directly to sleep. No meds, no dinner. Just sleep. Today I woke up absolutely withdrawn... feeling like a shell of myself... like I had somehow shrunk inside myself to hide, while the autonomic exterior that looks like me kept moving solely on inertia. I came in to work, but I was not here. I went through the motions. Someone stopped to give me a hug, and I couldn't feel it. I felt the need to go to group, even on a day off, just to feel safe. To feel like I could control myself. I spoke what little I could in group (only two of us and a therapist), and then came the class on co-dependency. Every line resonated in me - this was, quite possibly, the root of my problem. The nerve was hit again and I broke down once more.

We have found the root of some of my problems, and now I have to fix what I can. There's nothing wrong with being empathetic, and being supportive to someone. I just have to define where my boundaries are, and I encourage all those around me to hold up their barriers and boundaries to keep me going in a straight line.

What's Inside

As open, raw and honest as this blog is, and I hope it will be, there exists another level of brutal writing. Unfiltered truth, bare naked as a newborn child. It is in my journaling. Excerpts may appear from it, but there are things about me that are too dark to make public. As it is with all of us, I'm sure. But as I recover - as I rebuild, literally, scars are being ripped open.

The pain has been worse in the past few days than it was when I finally gave in and got help. Physically, emotionally, psychically and spiritually. I had been on a run of good feelings for a week or so. I had felt accomplished - things were starting to go well for a change. I felt.... happy. A nearly unrecognizable feeling.

Wednesday afternoon came with the announcement that Queen were finally releasing properly remastered, 2 CD sets of the original albums, with the bonus tracks (BBC recordings, demos, instrumental mixes) that they deserved. I was overjoyed. Elated. Orgasmic, to be honest. Best news I'd heard in a long time, and more than that, something to look forward to.  I was so happy I had to tell everyone... I told my friend and fellow Queenophile Andy, who was similarly excited. I told anyone who would half listen and not care. Then I picked up the phone and... tried to call Mom, as I would have always done. I lost it. Completely. I broke down to a sobbing, wimpering mess. I cried until I puked. I had to call my brother to come and help me grieve. I used all the coping skills I could muster to ground myself in the moment, and I regained my composure enough to do traffic and go be with my family and spend the night with a friend.

Thursday, I went in to IOP (on an off day) to talk about the day before. I did, and it felt okay. I brought the glass sculpture that holds a little of Mom's ashes with me, as I did the night before when my friend and I went to Prarie Meadows. During one of the classes, I began journaling. And it all started to pour out - my heart, my pain, my fears... raw and unfiltered. Once I had emptied out my heart, I went into a full-fledged anxiety attack. I had trouble breathing and I could not move. My legs were rubber and I weighed 400 pounds. I couldn't even speak. Two of the nurses helped me into another room where I could calm down, but my mood was fucked for the rest of the day. I had to call in sick, then went home and slept. Another friend stayed with me for a while at the apartment, which was painful as I decided that would be a good time to define our relationship by essentially ending it. I was already hurting - I had nothing to lose.

Friday brought another day of IOP, and an assertive visit with my chiropractor. I came back to work in a bad mood, edgy and angry. I arrived to the staff celebrating with free food and drawing for prizes, a drawing in which I was not enrolled, as I was not present to win. Frankly, I was a bitter, pissed off bastard, so I wrote a mass email to the staff in which I was rude and self-centered.

To wrap this up - I feel like I've backslid from almost all of the progress I've made. I know that isn't the case, but I can't help but feel lost again, and shameful for it. I know things will improve, as I'm already feeling better. But still... a bad week.

Interlude - Young Love

See? I knew it would happen. I start a blog, get passionate about it for about ten minutes, and then promptly forget about it.

But I'm back. Gotta stay on top of this thing.

Anyway, I've been kinda busy. Busy meeting new peoples. Busy meeting new lady peoples. A new thing for me, because in order for love to bloom, someone has to reach out and start the pollination. I've never been good with that.

But I'm getting better. And sometimes, when you reach out to someone, it works. :)

Chapter 0: What is past is prologue

To bring you up to speed a little:

I have suffered (so to speak) from depression for most of my adolescence and all of my adult life. School was one thing - being suicidal for attention, mostly. But somewhere along the way, it metamorphosized (metasticized is more apt) into full-blown, genuine depression.

This disease has been fed by more than a few demons. Bad relationships, painkillers, poor health and eating choices (I am, believe it or not, a teenage diagnosed Type II Adult Onset Diabetic. More on that later...). And, more recently, stronger demons like alcohol, marijuana and abused prescription drugs. While these things did not cause the depression, they stoked the fires and tightened the ropes that would pull me down.

I have attempted suicide, in earnest, twice. Once in 2001 after losing my best friend, my fiancee and my promising career. I took a full bottle of NyQuil gelcaps, washed them down with vodka and Hawaiian Punch (my drink of choice at the time), put on my headphones and went to sleep, with no regard to whether or not I woke up. I did. I did not throw them up, I did not have my stomach pumped. I just woke up.

The second time was December 19th, 2010. After a weekend of partying and drinking with friends, and a day of hanging out with a close friend, I had a breakdown. Already burdened with the grief of losing my Mom in June of that same year, I snapped. All the pills, all the pain, all the failures in my life... I fell to my knees and they avalanched down on me. Sometime in the late evening I drank a bottle of wine, poured out a handful of Klonopin (10 to 15 by my assumption) and laid down on a futon mattress in my living room to await Death. In most cases, my subconscious will usually protect me, pushing me out from in front of traffic or keeping me from walking into walls... my subconscious is a cartoon angel. Well, my cartoon angel had the day off, or was trying to kill me, because somehow along the way I had downed a third of a bottle of codeine cough syrup - with phenergen, which is also an anti-nausea medication. Those pills were going to stay down until they were in my system.

After a few minutes (it might has well have been an hour - my sense of perspective remains screwed up about that night) my breathing began to slow. I felt very very drowsy - not sleepy but discombobulated. I felt a strange calm. No bright light, but the ceiling fan slowed down. Then I felt a presence in the room. Not Jesus. Not Death. Possibly Mom. It was hazy. I picked up my cell phone and texted two people (anonymous for this blog for their sakes, but one is still my friend, though both saved me.) I was told "Puke them up or I'm calling the cops." For some reason, that was what got me up. I said okay, I would. (As if it was a cry for help.) Getting up from a near horizontal position after ingesting that many klonopin (which the body metabolizes like alcohol) was heavy. I felt like I weighed a metric ton, but the slightest incline felt like I was going to fly forward into the TV. I rolled off the side and essentially slithered/crawled on my stomach towards the bathroom, stopping near the fridge to vomit up the first time. I remember counting the pills (half digested) and seeing 7 or so. I made it to the bathroom, and had to force the rest out, which was not easy.

At around 6:30 I posted a nearly indecipherable message on Facebook, apologizing to the two friends who saved me. I went to work, groggy as all hell, told them what happened and had my Dad pick me up. Friend one met me there as well, and we cleaned any threatening substances out of my apartment, went to Goodwill to keep me occupied and then was taken to a safe place to spend the night. The next day I saw my psychiatrist, and we agreed I needed help. I agreed not to harm myself (and to seek help if I thought to do so) and set up plans to go into outpatient therapy. And the rest... that's the next chapter.

C

Greetings!

My name is Chris Chandler. I am 31 years old. And I have a lot on my head.

I'm a professional in the broadcast industry. I'm also a musician, a photographer, a chowhound and a scallywag. And I'm in the process of changing my entire life, from the ground up.

Over the next few days, weeks, months... (who knows...) my story will be revealed to you, my devoted reader.

Stay tuned...

C