Live and Let Die

To someone who has been cleaning the sour milk out of the bottom of the grocery dairy case, a job as a file clerk in an x-ray clinic sounds like a big step up on the ladder of success.  To some one who has been a file clerk you know that this isn't as big a leap forward as it might sound.

When I found myself implicated in a scandal, I left my job at the grocery store for a job as a file clerk.  I liked my new co-workers but it wasn't the same.  Eager to leave one soap opera, I soon discovered that I landed directly in the middle of another.  This time, I didn't play a major role.  It was just a walk-on part but even that was too much for me.

The office manager of the clinic was a suave ladies' man.  The receptionist and he had worked out an elaborate system so that an almost endless parade of girlfriends could be channelled through the building without ever running into each other.  For four months, I stood at a huge hanging file case and filed patient records.  A young co-worker on vacation never returned.  Somewhere in Idaho or Montana, a motor home pulled out in front of the motorcycle she was a passenger on.  She hit the motor home and died instantly.  Her husband called the office the very next day to ask about her life insurance policy and how much she was worth.

Paula was one of the kindest people, I had ever met.  Her death left a big hole in the heart of the office.   My boss started to train me to take over her job responsibilities.  It was a step up but it didn't feel like it.  Maybe some of it was survivor's guilt.  After all guilt was something I did extremely well.    Instead of dealing with patient files all day,  I answered phones and talked about billing and insurance.  More than one person would find themselves in tears as they told of their health scare and their inability to pay.  I couldn't hear their stories without feeling bad about their situation but I had a job to do.  I tried to be as kind as possible.  I hated it.

The new and glamorous aspects of my office job soon evaporated.  I missed the simple work of my old job and the variety.  I missed my co-workers.  I missed the innocence of a simpler time, of a friendship that I valued only to have it become something else entirely.  If hell has a business office, then I was in it.

At this point, I have to say that depression doesn't make sense.  My life really wasn't hell nor was this job yet it felt that way.  Depression seems to be less an illness of the mind and more an illness of the soul.  Joy and happiness was sucked out of my world leaving a dark and painful void where my heart used to be.  My feelings, my depression, wasn't justifiable.  Life really wasn't that bad and I knew it.  It felt unbearable and so I sought help.  I began to see a psychiatrist who was a short distance from the office.  I kept it a secret from almost everyone.

He was a wonderful, kind older gentleman.  It was easy for me to make him laugh.  He offered talk therapy at a time when psychiatrists still did so.    Now, they are mainly prescription writers.  He found me charming and delightful and reflected back to me a better part of myself.  The depression still had a vice grip on my soul.  I'd learned how to fake it.  Inside I felt like dying.  I wasn't able to completely fool him because I didn't want to.  He prescribed an early antidepressant.  It had a lot of side effects and was very sedating.

The first day I took it I was almost a zombie.  All day long I was caught up in the music playing in my head.  I heard "Live and Let Die" with full symphony orchestra.  No note was left out.  It played in an endless loop and was so loud in my head, I could hardly hear people speak. After months of feeling so miserable, this numbness was a blessed relief.

Slowly, my body began to adjust, the sedation eased.  The pain crept back in.  Alone, with a weekend before me and a bottle of wine,  I swallowed half a bottle of pills fully intending not to wake up again.  Fate was unbelievably kind.  I've never had the stomach for alcohol.  I didn't think the wine would disagree with me so violently but it did.  I woke up vomiting and that probably saved my life.

It took a few hours to realize what I had done but when I did I was horrified and ashamed.  In between attacks of violent vomiting, I heard these words in my head,
"Carol, your life is a gift.  You can not reject it.  You must live it.  You are deeply loved.  Believe that."
My first reaction was to argue with this voice.  As the haze slowly began to clear and my protests lost energy, I knew on the deepest level of my being that the voice inside me was right.  It seemed that my imaginary playmate was back.  This time, invisible and inside my head but real enough to make a difference in my life, at least for a while.  I didn't tell the doctor what I had done or anyone else for a very long time.