The new rock bottom

I thought I’d visited the town of Rock Bottom before. But it turns out every rock bottom you reach is different, sometimes worse, sometimes more frightening, than the last. Regardless: the phrase “it’s never been this bad” is almost moot, because before you know it, you’re in a situation twice as terrifyingly awful as the last time.

And that’s where I’m at now. I’ve said here before that things have never been so bad, but unfortunately they (somehow) got worse. My anxiety is now almost unmanageable. I can’t go to the shops easily. I can’t go for a piss at work. I can’t look at people in the office when they talk to me, and I blush if I do. I blush anyway. Before, when I blushed, it would disappear within 20 minutes. Now I remained totally flushed and blushed throughout the day. I look ridiculous, people look at me as though I’m ill (or have a serious drinking problem), and the more I feel the heat on my cheeks, the worse my anxiety gets.

It’s a constant circle of fear and embarrassment and – this is new for me – I’ve begun thinking about killing myself. I’m not capable of doing it, but I no longer can see how I can find the energy to fix this. It’ll take another 12 months of regular, weekly therapy and more pills, and all the while I’ll have to live this hell every single day. Yes, it might (and hopefully will) get better gradually – but we’re talking about a tiny, almost insignificant amount, and that’s discounting the potential fallbacks which are inevitable. It must, so my brain says, be easier just to call it quits.

I’ve always had quite an open philosophy to suicide. I was fascinated by the concept when I lost my father, because as a depressed person, suicide is one of the solutions. But in my new-found bereavement, I could think of nothing worse: I’d lost someone, and knew how terrible I felt, and I didn’t want to cause more pain for the rest of my family. Now, however, I’m no longer grieving my father and although my anxiety, phobias and deep depression is all linked to that part of my life, suicide suddenly seems less ridiculous. It’s appealing. It’s the valve, letting out all the pain and ending it. Just like that.

It’s also a loser’s way out, and as much as I do think “Oh, god, wouldn’t it be great to just … switch off”, I could never do it for the guilt I would feel seconds before I nodded off for good. The shame would envelop and surround me before death finally swept me away, and the thought of ending an unfulfilled life is still too shameful for me to comprehend suicide as a viable option.

I don’t blame anyone who chooses it, though. I know how close I’ve come in the past, and if anyone’s reading this contemplating taking their own life – wait a while. Think about those things you haven’t yet done, those places you haven’t smelled with your nose and lungs. Whatever your problems – and I’m talking as someone who is incapable of doing anything at the moment – I sincerely believe the afflicted can fight mental illness.

I hope so, at any rate. Thoughts welcome in the comments, not that I’m expecting anyone to have read through this.