Catching up on my promises: When depression gets the best of you.

I promised I’d post about a lot of things, but I’m wondering if it even matters?

I did slip up on my mental stability at one point, and it was very disheartening, but alcohol was involved and I hadn’t taken my medication in two or three days. What did I expect to happen?

I will say this… when your gut tells you not to do something, I truly believe that you should listen to it.

I think that in your heart of hearts you really know what’s best for you.

I knew I shouldn’t have gone out that night. I knew that for the first time in months I was going out to forget. Never do that.

“Why, Jess?”

Because the truth is you won’t forget.

If anything it’ll be all you can think about and you’ll be even more miserable. And decisions that you’d never make in a million years are decisions that you can’t help but make when you’re drunk.

I suppose everyone has to make mistakes, but this is definitely one that will never lead to any good. My advice is if you need to forget about something then take a day for yourself. It’s the absolute best thing to do. Take a bubble bath, cook yourself a lovely dinner, listen to music that sits well with your heart. all of these things are ten times better and more helpful than drinking your sorrows away.

I wonder why people drink to forget.

It’s an odd concept. Whenever I used to do it, the things I wanted to forget about most just became so much more clear to me and hurt so much more. Does drinking ever actually help anyone forget?

That night was only two days after my father went to prison. It was a really difficult night. I should not have gone out. My father’s fate was just setting in, and on top of that all of my roommates were gone and Khaleesi was a my mom’s. Theresa was on vacation and had left a number for another therapist that I had only met with once in case of an emergency. It just wasn’t the same. I was all alone. I didn’t know how to deal with the fact that my life as I knew it was changing. Everything was changing.

Everyone was changing. Including me.

I had no control over the things that were happening around me, but I could control my blood alcohol level. So that’s what I did.

I threw on some jean shorts and my favorite top and hopped on a bus, three whiskey shots in. Blasted Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now”, determined to be young, reckless, and hopefully in the arms of a one night stand later in the night.



Didn’t exactly go as planned. I got really drunk, ran into an old one night stand, decided to go for a second night because he lived close to me, (free cab ride home), decided to hit up a local bar with him even though I was already way past my 3 drinks in one sitting limit. I punched a guy in the face because as I was crying outside the bar with my friend/one night stand, this man decides to try to flirt with me. I almost got arrested for punching him in the face, but I put on the drunk charm and just barely got out of it.

My one night stand walked me home and asked me if I wanted to smoke weed, so I invited him up and grabbed the whiskey upon walking into my apartment. As he loaded up the bowl, I made my way to the kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife I could find.

I unforgivingly gave my arms a few slices, too drunk to cut as deep as my inebriated heart desired, and cried my eyes out. My one-nighter walked in and told me he can see that I have depression and that he’s been through it. He proceeded to take me to my room. He tucked me in and I told him to leave. He didn’t want to (for obvious life-and-death reasons), and I ruthlessly slapped him in the face multiple times until he left.

drunk as all hell, I grabbed the knife again and mercilessly stabbed my walls repeatedly.

I awoke to the sight of a knife stuck to the wall right above my face.

And with that I sauntered out of my room and into the shower. I stood under the head and let the warm water fall over me, in a trance as last night washed off with every drop.

I finished bathing and wrapped myself up in a towel. I deliberately avoided any mirrors in fear of seeing the person I was last night. I began to feel normal again with every knot I combed out of my hair. The bristles from my hairbrush massaged my scalp, and it angered me that I was comforting myself with it. I felt like I didn’t deserve any self-compassion.

But I really, really did.

I was under so much pressure, and I had the legitimate belief that being stable meant this would never happen to me. So long as I stayed on my medication and went to therapy I’d never deal with depression again.


Now I realize that I deserve every bit of compassion, and if anyone was going to give it, it should be me. I’m the only person who really knows me. I’m the only one who truly knows what I had been through this year, this decade, since the day I was born.

Others remember when I was in the Lakeshore Psychiatric hospital, but I’m the only one who can close her eyes and remember the fear in my heart the night I was admitted. I remember walking about the first morning in scrubs, drugged out of my mind on klonopin that a nurse gave me because I was so anxious. I remember being on the third floor with the schizophrenic patients because they hadn’t found a doctor to evaluate me yet. I remember crying in Joseph’s arms and barely being able to find my words in a haze of medication. I remember the desperation shake within me when visiting hours were over and Joseph had to leave. I remember the fear and sadness in his eyes that can never and will never be erased from my mind.

I remember what it was like to pass out from the bottle of tylenol I took. Imagining I was seconds away from death. Seconds away from silence.

I remember what it was like being back in the hospital again. Alive. I remember crying in despair upon waking and finding that the silence was only temporary.

I remember the moment I couldn’t handle depression on my own anymore and I called Theresa with tears in my eyes to set up an appointment.

I remember how much it hurt to see Joseph walk out of my life. To feel the emptiness that I could never find the words to explain.

I remember taking Wellbutrin for the first time. I also remember the first time I felt normal-sad. I remember the first time I felt like a normal person. I remember how proud I was the day I started making plans for my future again.

I remember the day I began to feel like myself.

I always empathize with people and tell them that everyone makes mistakes. I comfort them and feel for them when they struggle. Why in the world don’t I show myself that much love?

No, sir. That’s just not right.

So I proceeded to do what I should’ve done the night before. I took a day for myself.

And on some level… I’m extremely grateful for that night. It showed me that therapy can never be perfected. Stability is nothing but a word no matter how hard you try to make it a 24/7 reality. I am human and I am prone to making mistakes. It’s in my nature to respond to tragedy any way I see fit.

So next time you make a mistake, please please please forgive yourself.

People judge others enough as it is. Stop judging yourself.

And I’ll leave you with that.

115 days. 5 hours, 5 minutes, 5 seconds.





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