It turned out that what I had done in the garage that night did not rise to the level of a suicide attempt. This little intern at the hospital told me so.
“Oh, guys don’t do stuff like you did. Guys shoot themselves and jump out of windows.”
Great, I survived so she could emasculate me. Thank you very much. I appreciate that. It felt like those singsong taunts of third graders.
“You commit suicide like a girl!”
How do black men do it? Oh yeah, they reach for their wallet during a traffic stop.
It turns out that what I had done that night was technically considered to be “a gesture.” A gesture? I thought that a gesture was sending flowers or holding my cheek in the palm of my hand like Jack Benny. I didn’t know that it included asphyxiation. You learn something every day, don’t you?
They also told me that I might, just might, be suffering from depression. Gee, do you think? I don’t know. Usually, there’s nothing like sheer bliss to put me in the mood for some carbon monoxide gas.
I went to a psychiatrist who put me on medication. It was a cocktail of Wellbutrin and Buspar, to manage my chemical imbalance and elevate my serotonin levels, and some Remeron so that I could sleep. The physician said I’d have to take the drugs for two years and that it would be a month before I had enough of the medicine in my system to be effective. A month before I noticed any difference in how I was feeling. A month. A month in a deep, dark pit with no windows and no light. A month of lying on the couch without the energy to move.
As I lay there, I could hear my kids out on the front lawn playing. They had been so good through all of this. It was decided that they wouldn’t be told what had transpired. They were used to me leaving for out-of-town performances. They just assumed I was out doing a gig when I was in the hospital.
When I came home, I did my best to put on a happy face. I thought I was keeping them out of it, but I couldn’t fool Carolyn. She was eight years old and very much like me. She would look at me, a stiff smile plastered on my face, and ask, “Daddy, why do you look so sad?”
Their mother became distant and evasive. She dealt with my depression by avoiding the situation entirely, spending less and less time at home, retreating to a local biker bar with newfound friends. I guess we all anesthetize however we have to.
As I lay on the couch listening to the kids laughing and giggling, playing Twister, I sank lower. I wanted so much to go out and play with them, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t even move.