Lockdown and chronic depression are two different things.

The morning after the night before hurts and I’m not sure if I’ll make it to the bathroom without vomiting on myself. I haven’t had a meal in two days. The kind of nausea you get after your brain is called empty nausea. The three days of despair were brutal and I still call them a vulnerability hangover.

I spend a lot of time staring at the Dutch suicide prevention website and trying to get the courage to launch the chat function. If I am not able to corral my distress into words in conversation at home or in print, chat will be useless. Lying down on the track isn’t an option because there aren’t any trains anymore. I eliminated the pharmaceutical tool that I could have used a few weeks ago. They got worse.

The brain kept trying to kill me. I was not very rational at the time but I knew that if I took the whole lot it would be enough to knock me out. I thought it would be better to remove that possibility before it became more attractive. I took out the trash to make sure it was gone for good. We have smart card activated trash cans that don’t have to be retrieved after the container swallows the bag.

I have been trying to teach it not to do that for the last two years.