I felt well enough to pick up an IM. And that was the fatal mistake.
So now I'm back at square one, with another memory added to the pile of stuff I really didn't want to deal with right now. And with this happening right before my exams...*sigh* I don't know. Hopefully I can ignore them and focus this weekend.
Mental illness is a burden. In any relationship, whether it be friendly or romantic, there's always that third party. I know, because I'm manic-depressive, any person who wants to know me as a friend has to deal with sudden and vicious moodswings. And that can be very difficult for people to deal with.
And one of those other things that can be difficult to deal with are threats of suicide. Not only am I manic-depressive and thus know that never ending self-loathing that characterizes the deepest pits of my depression, I know that sudden instict that screams "JUMP!" whenever I walk by an open window on a high floor. I know these things happen, so I be very careful around them. And I know I'm a reflector, which makes it doubly hard to deal with suicidal threat cases...because I know that reflector will start picking up on that and make ME feel suicidal. It's not a fun feeling.
And when it's a case of every single fscking time something goes wrong the immediate response is "I'm going to kill myself!", it gets a bit tiring. Eventually, it's like, "do it, and do the world a favor." I know this sounds unnecesarily cruel, but it's like the little boy that cried wolf. Why the hell should we believe you this time?
And lastly, I know what a screwy intervention can do to a person, because I went through one. I don't like to talk about it, for what should be obvious reasons, but it always pops up in memory any time I'm asked to intervene in a situation.
My freshman year of college, I had a fight with my roommate. This is quite a long story, but let's just say that basically she was a neat freak and I was, well...my friends are amazed at how fast my room gets messy after I clean it. I live in a state of perpetual chaos. Anyway, the fight was pretty bad, and I was shook up pretty bad after it.
Called my mom. She wasn't home. Called an RA I'd briefed on the situation the weekend before. He wasn't home. Thus, in an attempt to get it out, I picked a suitemate and spilled all...not only about the fights, but how I'd felt the previous October when I really felt like jumping out my third story window.
Needless to say, as I went through the rest of an otherwise normal day, with just a tinge more anger than I was used to...I even showed up on IRC (I hung out on #aol-sucks on Dal at this point, this was before I knew the Jihad) and vented that way, as gobears-homicide. Nothing serious, just thinking up amusing ways for my roommate to die. And I did my stats homework. Lastly, I went to shower and head to bed.
Now my door had been closed all evening, but in our suite we had a grand tradition of leaving our keys in the door, so that anybody could get into a room if they wanted. It was kinda a way of saying, "I'm here, c'mon in, I don't mind if you bother me." So when I wandered down to take a shower, apperantly my suitemates, spurred on by the one whom I'd made the mistake of telling her about how I'd felt the previous October, knocked on my door.
When I'd failed to answer (keep in mind, I was in the shower), they could have turned my keys in the lock, opened the door, and peeked in, only to see that I was missing. But they immediately assumed the worst, and called Student Health to get the signs of somebody about to commit suicide. Student Health somehow took it that I was actually in the process of committing suicide and called the UC Police Department.
So, I get out of the shower, walk in my room, stack my books neatly and the phone rings. That's weird? Who'd be calling at this hour? So I pick it up, and it's student health, and they wanna know if I'm okay. Yeah, I say, not understanding what was up. And then the call waiting beeps. I switch over to the other line, only to hear "This is the UCPD, we've got an officer on the way, are you okay?"
Officer...officer? What did I need a police officer for?
So I finally get told what's going on, and my immediate anger lash was at my suitemates for getting all messed up what I'd said, along with some anger that I'd been building up. When the officer showed up, he had to seperate me from my suitemates, whom I was yelling at in frustration.
I'd gotten a CD full of wacky songs from Christmas, and it had been my music choice that night. So when the UCPD officer gets me seperated from my suitemates, he walks into the room, notes the music and said, "This is the first time I've ever been called on a suicide call and heard 'John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt' playing."
Anyway, in the end, we got it straightened out, the UCPD officer made me promise to call him if I got any more suicidal thoughts, and turned me over the Resident Director. And the RD and I talked, and we decided that it was probably a good thing that my roommate moved out, as it was fairly obvious she didn't want to live there anyway.
So it all worked out in the end. But any time I get called to intervene I remember the officer standing in my doorway, and how I felt, and it paralyzes me. Because there's always that chance we're wrong. So don't ask me to intervene, I'm uncapable of doing the act.
And remembering all this brings up some pretty ugly thoughts, and I've got to add it to the juggling pile until I can either make peace with it, or kinda ignore it like I had been. And with two tests coming up next week...the timing was kinda bad.
'course I never expected to be drug into in the first place. I have my opinions on the matter, I've expressed them to the people who need to know, and the first thing to remember is that people have baggage. And in a relationship, you get not only the person but you get all their hopes and dreams and terrors and screwed up bits of their head...And the point here is that kind of relationship can get unhealthy very fast, unless both parties are willing to work with the baggage and be patient.
Unfortunately, people forget about their baggage and thus get angry at the person whom they were once in a relationship with. Yeah. My manic-depression doesn't mean much to me, I've been living with it for what seems like forever. But the three-pound bit of flesh between my ears isn't everything, and people who aren't familiar with me can be startled and scared by the rapidity of my moodswingyness.
In other words, it may not be your ex-lover or ex-friend who's necesarily at fault, but your own screwy perceptions. Gotta watch out for that baggage, or you'll trip. ;)
...eek, I've wrote a lot tonight. And I'm taking a very big step in making this public. So anyway, there's a part of me you don't get to see very often, gawk.