I feel like I owe you guys some more information, the "gory details", if you will. Please bear with me, I might ramble or go off-topic a bit.
I'm an alcoholic. I don't think that's a surprise to anyone here. For years I've been able to 'manage' it, with only the occasional 3-day binge. But when I lost my job last year and started boring through my savings, I started spiraling downward. I was juggling bills and debt like some Cirque du Soleil performer. Then at Christmas, you guys banded together, as CHUD so often does, and brought me back from the brink. I found another job, but the pay was terrible, and not enough to keep me caught up, let alone get ahead of things. I ended up depleting all I had and even my 401k.
My car has been dying slowly - cracked windshield, bald front tires, desperately needed brakes, windows that won't roll up or down. But at leat the engine runs great.
This is going to sound silly, I know, but I also haven't been the same ever since I lost Squee. Everyone who met him loved him. He was one of a kind, and my best buddy.
I never realized what a sneaky bitch depression can be. The suicidal thoughts just sort of started appearing, unbidden, in my thoughts. Like, every hour, I'd be watching tv or browsing the web, and thinking, "Could I manage that somehow? Do I have access to any tall parking garages? How much antifreeze can I take to do the job in one dose?". Things like that. Ironically enough, when I was in the ER, my roommate said there was a rifle in his room all along. I had no idea. Only now, today, am I thankful that I didn't. I would've used it in a heartbeat last week.
I did research online, which I think I even mentioned once before a while back in this thread. No over-the-counter stuff will work, you just throw it up. Hanging was out of the question, there are kids in this cul-de-sac, and I wouldn't want to subject them to that. So I finally landed on one I knew I could do.
Get close to blackout drunk, and duct-tape a garbage bag around my head. Then I'd just lay down on the sofa, pass the fuck out, and let nature take care of the rest.
I was all set to go when MichaelM's Rescue Force arrived, pounding on the front door. I didn't open it. They went around back to the deck, where we have a large sliding glass door. I was scared they were going to bust it down, because they could see me on the sofa, so I got up and let them in. They asked me what was going on, and I told them that I intended to die. They said they couldn't let that happen, and let me get dressed and took me to the ER.
I was in the ER overnight, blood taken, drugs and fluids pumped in, the works. They sent in a wonderful counselor, with whom I had what must have been a three hour conversation. When they transferred me the next day to the rehab center, she held my hand for a moment and said, "I'll never forget you."
At rehab, they at first assigned me to the wrong unit. I'm talking a One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest unit. Really. Scary. Shit. My doctor found me and nearly shrieked, "You're not supposed to be in here!" and had me transferred to the proper ward.
It's mostly typical boring rehab/detox stuff after that - meds, therapy, terrible Jesus-y AA meetings where the speaker mostly just talked about his own miserable life, cafeteria food (surprisingy decent for what I assume must be a small budget). Biggest gripe - NO BOOKS. AT ALL. They had crossword puzzles and find-the-word games, but all they gave us were these giant markers you couldn't possibly use to fill in a crossword box.
Oh, and no shaving. And no caffeine.
If you guys have any questions about all of this, feel free to ask in this thread. I'm feeling stronger every day, at least until I get the inevitable sticker-shock when I find out how much my Zoloft prescription is gonna cost.
All I want to do now is be deserving of your kindnesses.