I fantasized in elaborate detail about killing myself today, an occurrence far more common than I would prefer.
This obsessive-compulsive demon has a hold of me, whether literal or figurative. I don’t mean OCD in the colloquial sense that people use it to describe an anal-retentive need for paintings to be straight on the wall or tax records neatly filed.
I mean OCD in the sense of a demon, literal or figurative, hijacking my mind and running it into a wall with nonstop, invasive, recurring, unwanted obsessive thoughts from dawn until dusk, with never anything close to a resolution, followed by soul-crushing, ritualistic compulsions in a vain attempt to exorcise the demon. Since I was ten years old, every waking moment has been spent with this monster. Sometimes it’s quieter than other times, but there are no vacations. I am a prisoner in an invisible prison.
No volume or variety of self-medication — and I’ve tried them all, short of renouncing the world and relocating to a monastery on a Himalayan mountaintop — have thus far yielded any lasting relief.
To this demon I attribute years of substance abuse — including a hellish alcohol and Xanax addiction that took years of effort to overcome — and various other coping mechanisms in a desperate attempt at escape, but which have only extended and enhanced the misery.
I remember vividly — the most vivid memory I have, perhaps — like it was yesterday the moment it got ahold of me. The most striking aspect of its onset is that it came apparently apropos of nothing.
At ten years old, circa 1997, I sat watching 2001: A Space Odyssey on the television in the living room. The day was overcast; a drizzle fell outside all around the Georgia pine trees right outside the window. Then it came over me in a flash: existential dread; something was very wrong. I felt sure that tragedy was imminent. But the damnedest thing was that there was no environmental stimulus to cause it.
This was my first panic attack, but I lacked the knowledge or vernacular to understand what was happening. It was far from the last. Maybe if someone had been there with me to nip it in the bud, I might have foregone a lot of pain. But they weren’t, and it festered.
Does writing this down make me weak? Am I supposed to figure this shit out on my own in a closet like old times? It certainly gives ammunition to my enemies. C’est la vie.
I want nothing more than to vanquish it, but at times, like today, I come to the end of my rope. A poet or a philosopher or someone once observed that “irony is the song of the bird that has come to love its cage.” I know the tune — and if you read Armageddon Prose you’ve seen it sung — but I don’t want to sing it anymore. It’s a rotten, dead-end hymnal.
Among such many attempts in vain to fix this, I’ve talked to a Ukrainian psychoanalytic therapist located in Lviv for a while now, whom I digitally met by way of a tangential connection to my wife. While I’ve gained some insights, it hasn’t helped much, which I don’t necessarily fault her for.
Anyway, my wife once asked me not to talk about it with her parents — which I wouldn’t have anyway, as I would wish them to believe they’ve given their only daughter over to competent hands — because, in Slavic culture, talking to a shrink is considered a mark of shame.
A guy in her village killed himself a few years ago over some psychological/spiritual affliction, and as a consequence, he was buried in the corner of the cemetery — a tainted soul, even in death. It’s healthy to socially disincentivize self-indulgent navel-gazing and suicide to some extent, which I respect. But that no one got to him before he took the ultimate trip is a tragedy.
Is there a point to all of this suffering, or at least a merciful end to it that doesn’t involve the end of everything? I hope so.
What I hope to get out of sharing this intensely personal albatross with you, I surely don’t know — but not pity, a drug as poisonous as fentanyl. Perhaps it’s to feel a little less alone in this prison. Maybe someone can relate. Maybe you.
Here’s hoping I summon some better answers in 2024.
Ben Bartee, author of Broken English Teacher: Notes From Exile, is an independent Bangkok-based American journalist with opposable thumbs.
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Ben, I have medical books from the 1960's that are amazing. What you described in this post could be a manifestation of a long term deficiency of B complex vitamins because B complex is one of the 7 ESSENTIAL vitamins our bodies need daily as medically proven over and over again since then. The out of print book is Let's Get Well by Adele Davis. This book has been used in our family for three generations because the information turned out to be very workable and the bibliography is quite impressive. It takes four months to correct this type of deficiency by taking B complex along with A, C and E plus minerals. Those are the main essentials the human body needs daily as proven through testing and analysis. The other two are calcium and magnesium which I get from Outback naturals as a drink I make twice a day. Hopefully if you try all of these supplements it should make a difference by the fourth month. I know for my self, getting essential nutrients made it much easier for me to bat away the darkness of my own mental travels. Another point is the fact that food no longer contains these essential vitamins or only contains minuscule amounts because of factory farming methods which strip the earth of nutrients. Its worth a try for several months to see if you get some results by taking these supplements that should provide you some relief. Oh, please note, I am not a sales rep for any vitamin company nor one for the referenced book. I took the time to write you because the information in Adele's book has really helped me and our family.
Good luck to you.
Is there anything in life that fills your heart with joy? Or anyone? Or a pet? If not, I would first say that I hope you can find something/someone that makes your heart happy when you are in contact with it. Even if it’s a pet or some activity. Perhaps music therapy? Even playing music yourself? Or humming?
Is there any way you can start ignoring the demon? Tell it to eff off? Read a Bible verse when you get the thoughts? Start singing?
I was once visited by a demon in the night who tried to suffocate me and I mustered up a command three times that the demon should “Get out in the name of Jesus Christ.” That thing left. The next morning I told my mother what happened and she said the thing went into her room as well. I don’t know what she did to get rid of it. We were not devout Christians, but I wasn’t going to let that dark being get me.
There is more to your story I can relate to, but I am reticent to disclose it here. Just know you have the power to defeat evil without giving up your sanity or your life.
You overcame the substance dependence. That was HUGE and is a testament to your strength to evict demons.