![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
misterxAnd I'm so mad, I'm considering ending the friendship.
A couple weeks ago, this person sort of flipped out, took a bunch of pills, sliced his arm up, and generally tried to kill himself. Luckily 911 was called, friend was hospitalized, and things turned out ok. I went and got friends car, gathered clothes at his house, fed his cat, and brought him his clothes before he was transferred to the mental hospital. I talked to friend on a cellphone as he was transferred to a distant mental hospital in a police cruiser, and among the things he said was that as soon as he got out, he would "finish the job". I called ahead to the facility, let them know of previous suicide attempts, and also let them know what he had said, hoping to get him the care he needed. What a hellasuck week it was, with some very unpleasant decisions to make. I then get a phone call, they will release him, can I come pick him up? I make the 200 mile round-trip in my car to pick him up.
A day or two later, he drops out of communication. No response to emails or IM, doesn't answer phone or return calls. I spend all day worrying that he may have killed himself, and as soon as I'm able I drive out to his apartment and let myself in with the spare key. He's in bed, not bothering to answer calls. I get rather irate, explaining to him that after you just tried to kill yourself, it is NOT okay to drop out of communication for 24 hours.
We have some contact the next day, and I come over the day after that to help him work on his car (it's barely drivable), so he can get to work. We have a couple days of communication.
Then, I hear of trouble... he has broken it off with his fiance, and told her he is "leaving". "Where are you going?" "I'm just leaving, I'm going away."
I try calling him to check on him, no answer. His computer is online, I IM him, no response. I'm trying not to be too concerned, but the fear that he may have killed himself again stirs in my head. Thursday rolls around, still no word. His now-ex-fiance goes by his apartment to check on him. His car is there, but he is nowhere to be found. Strange. She says an empty six-pack was on the floor though, and says a friend saw him leaving the liquor store with a large bottle of something. Great. Depressed, drunk and missing is not a reassuring combination.
The hours tick by with agonizing slowness, and I spend a very distracted and useless day at work. After work, I talk to his ex-wife. She is also worried and says she sent the police to check on him, but the door was locked, and no one came to the door when they hailed. They can't do any more than that without a key and someone there.
I don't have a car this evening, as Melanie has to take Lorelei to PFlag, and then to the "movie on the lake" thing the city does in the summer. I have overtime work I am massively behind on (I missed a whole week due to stress over the suicide attempt) so I try to keep busy doing work stuff. I finally get tired and worn out enough that I think I can sleep, and head to bed.
An hour passes. I stare at the ceiling. I can't sleep. I keep wondering, did he try to kill himself again? Did he get drunk and go off into the woods to hang himself? Is he laying on the floor right now, slowly dying from an overdose of sleeping pills? Fuck. I might as well get up, because I'm not sleeping. And if I'm up, I might as well drive out there and see if there is anything to be seen that might give a clue to his whereabouts. It's now been over 48 hours since I last heard from him.
So at 1am, under a full moon, I drive out there. I knock several times, no response. I let myself in.
The apartment looks like a tornado has hit it. Clothes and boxes in piles, stuff strewn everywhere. His cat runs to me, meowing. I pet her, and make a mental note to check her food before I leave. I look around the living room, look at his desk, nothing helpful... I see the six-pack bag on the floor... nothing much else of note.
I step over piles and go to the bedroom... the dresser that I had helped move in just weeks ago for his fiance's clothes is now gone. The bed has been slept in, and on the right hand side... his cellphone. I check it, it's on. So whereever he's gone, he's not getting my messages. On the other side of the bed, on the floor, there is a huge orange stain, not sure what it is. Some cleaning supplies and a bucket show someone had started to clean it.
I check the bathroom. No one in the tub. The toilet is full of what looks like antifreeze. WTF. I note the cat's dish just has dregs left. Must feed the cat before I go.
I go back into the bedroom. I know he has a large backpack... I stuffed it full of clothes for him when he was going to the mental hospital. Maybe if I can determine the backpack is gone, it will give me hope that he has gone camping or something. I glance around, don't see it. Once wall of the bedroom is taken up full width by a closet, with two sets of double louvered doors. The right-hand side is open, but I don't see the backpack.
The left side is closed though, and that strikes me as strange. He doesn't usually close his closets. I have my flashlight on as I start to pull the door open.
My flashlight beam lights a human hand, and I jump back as my heart skips a beat. Oh fuck. Jesus. I open the door some more, and there he is, lying on the floor under a blanket, motionless. Why is he in the closet? I shine the light on his face, and watch for signs of breathing. He is still.
Suddenly, his eyes open. "Wha... what the hell are you doing?", I ask. Sleeping, he says. "In the closet?!?" It's dark in here, he says. I ask him if he needs help, if he needs me to take him back to the hospital. He says no. I tell him his cat needs food. I go sit in the living room. I realize I am shaking. I review in my head... He's been out of contact with me for 48 hours, ignoring calls, ignoring emails, ignoring cops pounding on his door, all the while hiding in his closet? And all this after making the cryptic announcement that he was going away? I know he knows what this is doing to people. I know he knows what people will think. I know he knows how much stress he is causing me, because I explained it to him when he disappeared for 24 hours.
Look, folks, if you're ever tempted to try this, let me tell you... setting up a situation so people will fear that you've killed yourself is pure Grade A prime ASSHATTERY. For people who really care about you, it's a cruel, cruel mindfuck. It's unconscionable. It is abusing people in the worst way, to satisfy your own selfish need for attention and drama. You are not so out of control that you didn't know what you were doing.
If I sound harsh, let me explain that this isn't the first time he's done this while I've been his friend. He showed up at my house once, slurring his words, having taken a whole bottle of wellbutrin. And he did something else, which is slipping my mind at this early hour. But he later admitted both were not real suicide attempts, they were done for the attention. And that's pretty screwed up, when you're a father of two.
I got pretty mad then. I threw stuff, I yelled. And then I left. I drove back and forth on the same stretch of road for 45 minutes, debating whether to go back in and physically kick his ass.
But eventually, the hot anger wore off, and in it's place I feel ice water running in my veins, cold and crystal clear. I've sat down to type this story, and I find myself at it's end. It's mostly for myself, I guess, because I'm looking for a reason I would choose to continue being this person's friend. He is either doing this purposefully, or he really is as utterly clueless as he is pretending to be about why I am angry. But whatever the truth, choosing to stay is choosing to have this happen to me again. And kids, I'm fried.
comments will be screened.
A couple weeks ago, this person sort of flipped out, took a bunch of pills, sliced his arm up, and generally tried to kill himself. Luckily 911 was called, friend was hospitalized, and things turned out ok. I went and got friends car, gathered clothes at his house, fed his cat, and brought him his clothes before he was transferred to the mental hospital. I talked to friend on a cellphone as he was transferred to a distant mental hospital in a police cruiser, and among the things he said was that as soon as he got out, he would "finish the job". I called ahead to the facility, let them know of previous suicide attempts, and also let them know what he had said, hoping to get him the care he needed. What a hellasuck week it was, with some very unpleasant decisions to make. I then get a phone call, they will release him, can I come pick him up? I make the 200 mile round-trip in my car to pick him up.
A day or two later, he drops out of communication. No response to emails or IM, doesn't answer phone or return calls. I spend all day worrying that he may have killed himself, and as soon as I'm able I drive out to his apartment and let myself in with the spare key. He's in bed, not bothering to answer calls. I get rather irate, explaining to him that after you just tried to kill yourself, it is NOT okay to drop out of communication for 24 hours.
We have some contact the next day, and I come over the day after that to help him work on his car (it's barely drivable), so he can get to work. We have a couple days of communication.
Then, I hear of trouble... he has broken it off with his fiance, and told her he is "leaving". "Where are you going?" "I'm just leaving, I'm going away."
I try calling him to check on him, no answer. His computer is online, I IM him, no response. I'm trying not to be too concerned, but the fear that he may have killed himself again stirs in my head. Thursday rolls around, still no word. His now-ex-fiance goes by his apartment to check on him. His car is there, but he is nowhere to be found. Strange. She says an empty six-pack was on the floor though, and says a friend saw him leaving the liquor store with a large bottle of something. Great. Depressed, drunk and missing is not a reassuring combination.
The hours tick by with agonizing slowness, and I spend a very distracted and useless day at work. After work, I talk to his ex-wife. She is also worried and says she sent the police to check on him, but the door was locked, and no one came to the door when they hailed. They can't do any more than that without a key and someone there.
I don't have a car this evening, as Melanie has to take Lorelei to PFlag, and then to the "movie on the lake" thing the city does in the summer. I have overtime work I am massively behind on (I missed a whole week due to stress over the suicide attempt) so I try to keep busy doing work stuff. I finally get tired and worn out enough that I think I can sleep, and head to bed.
An hour passes. I stare at the ceiling. I can't sleep. I keep wondering, did he try to kill himself again? Did he get drunk and go off into the woods to hang himself? Is he laying on the floor right now, slowly dying from an overdose of sleeping pills? Fuck. I might as well get up, because I'm not sleeping. And if I'm up, I might as well drive out there and see if there is anything to be seen that might give a clue to his whereabouts. It's now been over 48 hours since I last heard from him.
So at 1am, under a full moon, I drive out there. I knock several times, no response. I let myself in.
The apartment looks like a tornado has hit it. Clothes and boxes in piles, stuff strewn everywhere. His cat runs to me, meowing. I pet her, and make a mental note to check her food before I leave. I look around the living room, look at his desk, nothing helpful... I see the six-pack bag on the floor... nothing much else of note.
I step over piles and go to the bedroom... the dresser that I had helped move in just weeks ago for his fiance's clothes is now gone. The bed has been slept in, and on the right hand side... his cellphone. I check it, it's on. So whereever he's gone, he's not getting my messages. On the other side of the bed, on the floor, there is a huge orange stain, not sure what it is. Some cleaning supplies and a bucket show someone had started to clean it.
I check the bathroom. No one in the tub. The toilet is full of what looks like antifreeze. WTF. I note the cat's dish just has dregs left. Must feed the cat before I go.
I go back into the bedroom. I know he has a large backpack... I stuffed it full of clothes for him when he was going to the mental hospital. Maybe if I can determine the backpack is gone, it will give me hope that he has gone camping or something. I glance around, don't see it. Once wall of the bedroom is taken up full width by a closet, with two sets of double louvered doors. The right-hand side is open, but I don't see the backpack.
The left side is closed though, and that strikes me as strange. He doesn't usually close his closets. I have my flashlight on as I start to pull the door open.
My flashlight beam lights a human hand, and I jump back as my heart skips a beat. Oh fuck. Jesus. I open the door some more, and there he is, lying on the floor under a blanket, motionless. Why is he in the closet? I shine the light on his face, and watch for signs of breathing. He is still.
Suddenly, his eyes open. "Wha... what the hell are you doing?", I ask. Sleeping, he says. "In the closet?!?" It's dark in here, he says. I ask him if he needs help, if he needs me to take him back to the hospital. He says no. I tell him his cat needs food. I go sit in the living room. I realize I am shaking. I review in my head... He's been out of contact with me for 48 hours, ignoring calls, ignoring emails, ignoring cops pounding on his door, all the while hiding in his closet? And all this after making the cryptic announcement that he was going away? I know he knows what this is doing to people. I know he knows what people will think. I know he knows how much stress he is causing me, because I explained it to him when he disappeared for 24 hours.
Look, folks, if you're ever tempted to try this, let me tell you... setting up a situation so people will fear that you've killed yourself is pure Grade A prime ASSHATTERY. For people who really care about you, it's a cruel, cruel mindfuck. It's unconscionable. It is abusing people in the worst way, to satisfy your own selfish need for attention and drama. You are not so out of control that you didn't know what you were doing.
If I sound harsh, let me explain that this isn't the first time he's done this while I've been his friend. He showed up at my house once, slurring his words, having taken a whole bottle of wellbutrin. And he did something else, which is slipping my mind at this early hour. But he later admitted both were not real suicide attempts, they were done for the attention. And that's pretty screwed up, when you're a father of two.
I got pretty mad then. I threw stuff, I yelled. And then I left. I drove back and forth on the same stretch of road for 45 minutes, debating whether to go back in and physically kick his ass.
But eventually, the hot anger wore off, and in it's place I feel ice water running in my veins, cold and crystal clear. I've sat down to type this story, and I find myself at it's end. It's mostly for myself, I guess, because I'm looking for a reason I would choose to continue being this person's friend. He is either doing this purposefully, or he really is as utterly clueless as he is pretending to be about why I am angry. But whatever the truth, choosing to stay is choosing to have this happen to me again. And kids, I'm fried.
comments will be screened.