Here we are back where we were before

So I left off this blog in April of last year. 2020 maybe the year that time forgot, the year that wreaked havoc on life, but my year from hell was 2019. I became homeless in January of that year. Stayed in a homeless shelter for six months. The Haven Center was a temporary stop, not meant to be permanent, as I kept looking for permanent housing and employment, which was not forthcoming. In the meantime I became very popular in the shelter due to the fact that I had a running car. I became "that guy", the guy you ran to when you needed a ride somewhere. I took people to work, to doctor's appointments, to buy weed (the guy said he was just going to meet a friend, but when he had me park somewhere at night and then took off, insisting he would be "right back", I had my suspicions). For gas money, of course. Cars don't run for free you know.

Finally, when it became apparent that my housing wasn't going to come through, and when it was obvious that I wasn't trying very hard (in the eyes of the staff, anyway), I was given my notice. You have five days to find other arrangements.

I wrote the following on TwitLonger in May of 2019: 

Unlike some blog entries I've done (and if I hadn't forgotten my password this would be a blog entry), I don't have any creative ways to present this information. I could be asked why I'm even posting it. The reason being is that I think the stigma needs to be erased around mental health concerns, especially men's mental health concerns. Or maybe I'm just an attention whore. Or maybe just stupid. The jury is still out.

I have been dealing with depression for years. But lately it has been much worse. With my kids being put into group homes for the disabled, then my wife leaving me, then getting evicted from my home, I have been carrying a lot of weight on my back. Since someone is going to ask, I do see a therapist, I do go to group therapy, and I do take medication. I'm doing all the things I'm supposed to be doing, but when you miss your children terribly and don't have the means to see them, and you haven't dealt well with the fact that the woman you spent 20 years with and vowed to love you forever doesn't want that love anymore, the depression becomes almost more than you can handle.

Until it actually becomes more than you can handle. And then those Percocets that were prescribed after you had dental surgery, the Percocets that you should have dumped down the toilet or turned in to the local police station or whatever way is the correct way to get rid of unused medication... that bottle of Percocets look like the only way out.

I wrote the requisite note, sending final messages to certain people and requests to notify others, and then I took three. And three more. And three more until 30 Percocets were swimming around in my system. I laid down to go to sleep, not expecting to wake up again.

Obviously, I woke up again.

The next morning I decided that I should call the local hospital, just in case that medication had adverse effects on me. Yeah, I know, the whole purpose was for that medication to have adverse effects on me. But since I was still alive, I decided to seek some help. The EMT's came, I got into an ambulance, and I didn't see the homeless shelter again for seven days. I spent that seven days in the psych ward of a local hospital, the purpose of which was to give me the tools (and medication adjustments) so that I wouldn't want to take my life anymore.

Those seven days are over now, and I have some reflections. (None of which involves names or details of those I spent my waking hours with.)

Some people are going to invoke the "selfish" accusation. "People who commit suicide are performing the ultimate act of selfishness, not caring about those around them who love them." To which I say hey, I spent years being unselfish. I cared for two autistic children for years for the simple reason that they were my children, I loved them more than my own life, and besides that, it was my job to love and care for and sacrifice for those children. When they left my household the most common piece of advice I received was to care for myself now. But I didn't know how to do that. I still don't. And when the wife that I loved for 20 years decided that enough was enough, I was really lost.

To those who think that taking those Percocets was a selfish act, well, I'm sorry you feel that way. You obviously don't know me very well and don't understand what I have been through. You don't know what Kate Spade or Robin Williams or Anthony Bourdain or Chris Cornell or Chester Bennington or any one of thousands of individuals, both known and unknown, have been through to have driven them to end their lives.

Am I sorry for what I did? I don't think that I am sorry or not sorry. It happened, I survived, I am moving forward. Writing this isn't going to win me any new friends, it may cause me to lose some, it may cause those I've retained to just think of me as more weird than I already am or walk on eggshells around me. Whatever. I've been on one post-marriage date; admitting that I struggle with suicidal ideation isn't going to get me that second one. Whatever.

I survived and went back to the homeless shelter. I didn't get kicked out. Right away at least. The next day Alexis called me into the office. It was Friday: Gloria was giving me until Tuesday to get out. I had one option: the St. Elizabeth Center, a shelter for men. Only problem was that you didn't get to stay there all day. You were up at 6 and the shelter closed at 7. You came back for breakfast but had to leave again; same for lunch. Shelter opened back up at 6PM.

I really did not want to do that. So I did what any emotionally unhealthy person in my situation might do; I attempted suicide. Again. And went to the hospital. Again.

Since it was my second stay in 2019 I was recommended for Electro-Convulsive Therapy (ECT). According to Psychiatry.org-

Electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) is a medical treatment most commonly used in patients with severe major depression or bipolar disorder that has not responded to other treatments.

ECT involves a brief electrical stimulation of the brain while the patient is under anesthesia. It is typically administered by a team of trained medical professionals that includes a psychiatrist, an anesthesiologist, and a nurse or physician assistant.

I was in the hospital for 10 days this time, and received four (I think) ECT treatments. The jury is still out for me as to whether they were successful. I didn't feel any different. I didn't plan on attempting suicide again (I was out of prescription medication anyway), but my depression still remained. Oh well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

I left the hospital and was taken straight to the Nord Center Crisis Stabilization Unit where I stayed for at least a month, maybe longer. This was a 12-bed short term stay unit. I shared a room with two other guys, attended group therapy on a semi-regular basis, and continued to pursue other housing alternatives. My third psychiatric-related facility of the year.

Finally, in August of 2019 I was given the opportunity to move into an efficiency apartment managed by the Lorain Metropolitan Housing Authority, an apartment I still live in today. The first good thing to happen to me in several years. I didn't have my kids, I didn't have my wife, but I did have an opportunity to make a new start, so I took it. Homeless no longer. Two months after that I was approved for disability payments (SSI) based upon my mental health over 2019.

Things started to improve for me. My mental health was still touch and go but I wasn't in danger of another suicide attempt. I wasn't anywhere near close to finding employment, for reasons that I may cover in another blog entry. Maybe. Not sure I want to go there publically yet.

This is getting long, much longer than I anticipated. 2020 began my comeback. I will take up that subject in the next blog entry.