It just so happens that today is the shortest day of the year. That's a good eight hours' difference from the longest day, 21st June, when there's so much more light. Today, 21st December, thankfully marks a turning point, and from now on, each day brings a little more light and sunshine.
However, the "bloody days" that give this post its title have nothing to do with today, which I only mention because it's topical. I haven't been very active on the blog since July. The reason, as I call them, is the "bloody days" I experienced around 4th July, almost out of the blue.
To help you understand, I need to explain a bit about myself. In nearly 50 years of life, I've grown increasingly accustomed to depression and the "blues". But this event, these "bloody days", took me to a new level.
I hadn't actually felt depressed at all and was proud that I had my "black dog" reasonably well under control without medication. But I was taught a harsh lesson.
Two or three hard knocks from life, and without really realising it, I reached the limit of what I could bear. My energy was completely depleted.
You might wonder how you know when your energy is gone. I'll gladly share how it is for me. Slowly and insidiously, over a long period, more and more negative feelings surface. Eventually, you wake up with such bad feelings that you don't even want to get out of bed. The next step is: suicidal thoughts return, and the downward spiral continues step by step until a line is crossed – and that's when "bloody days" can be triggered, or something even worse.
Well, my "bloody days" were bad enough, and I don't want to keep you, the reader, in suspense any longer: what happened?
I had received devastating news. This is, of course, very subjective and also depends on how much energy you still have, and how heavily that news weighs. But once it arrived, I switched off my phone and said: "That's enough, I can't do this anymore, I've had enough, and I'm ending it now."
I started planning how best to cut my wrists to bleed out and simply leave this incredibly difficult, cruel world behind, returning to my true home. In my childlike imagination, I thought that after some blood loss, I would slowly fade away, leave my body, and go home.
I then drove to a shop and bought a good knife, almost like a scalpel, from the hardware store. Back in my garage, I reversed my car in, said one last Lord's Prayer, apologised to God for not being able to finish the task of life, and then I began.
It wasn't my first suicide attempt. Because of that, I already knew not to cut across and just haphazardly. That's more common if you're under the influence of alcohol or trying for the first time and don't quite understand the anatomy of the arms and hands.
So, I deliberately started to cut a hole over the pulse point, where you can sometimes see the pulse, to really get the blood flowing.
Very carefully, I went deeper and deeper and managed to hit the main artery in my hand. The blood didn't gush out as you might imagine from films, but it started to bleed very heavily.
I felt a real sense of joy. I believed my plan was working, and if enough blood drained away, I could leave my body and disappear homewards.
At this point, however, my childlike, false idea diverged from reality, and everything turned out differently than I expected.
I passed out several times and came back to consciousness. The body isn't designed for suicide. It tries everything to save a life, even if you're trying to end it. The artery began to retract, and the bleeding stopped on its own.
I was in a deadlock: too little blood lost to die, but too much to simply carry on. A suffering set in, and I could neither go forwards nor backwards.
I had put myself in the worst position I'd ever been in and had to make a decision: suffer for a long time – without knowing how long – or seek help immediately to get out of this terrible situation.
I was sitting in the driver's seat of my car in the garage with the door closed, thinking I wouldn't be disturbed. But then, with my last ounce of strength, I opened the automatic garage door, started the car, and drove to the car park of the doctor who could have helped me.
I made it to the car park. But as I got out to walk the ten metres to the practice, I collapsed, powerless, and lay on the ground. Relatively quickly, someone saw me and immediately called the emergency services.
I wasn't unconscious, but I could barely move. I was loaded into the ambulance and shortly after flown to the hospital by helicopter.
The bleeding had stopped by then. But from the moment I decided to seek help, although I was weak, I was fully conscious.
Once at the hospital, of course, I had to explain everything 15 times. Afterwards, I had surgery, and they told me that even though the bleeding had stopped, everything needed to be properly stitched back together.
I remember the doctor telling me after the operation that everything had gone well. I thanked him and said, "I think my arm is probably the least of my problems." You can't cut away problems, especially severe depression, with knives, nor can you solve them with strong medication.
I was then asked what I envisioned for myself. As someone known in my family for struggling with depression and hereditary predispositions, I had never had psychotherapy until then. The help I had received so far was limited to a packet of antidepressants – and that was it. I told the people at the hospital that this was now the extreme and I truly needed help from specialists.
Kindly, they found me a place in a secure psychiatric unit that same day, and I was taken there by ambulance, not knowing what to expect.
So, at just over 50 years old, I ended up where the film One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was set. In fact, I spent a week on the secure ward and a week on the open ward, but it often felt exactly like that film. However, the people I asked didn't know this famous film. Perhaps my sarcasm was a bit much – but I hadn't lost my sense of humour.
In the initial conversations, it quickly became clear that the specialists primarily wanted to know if I would harm myself again and what I planned to do. I was able to clarify that suicide was no longer an option for me. These "bloody days" were a great lesson and, as far as suicide is concerned, brought me a little closer to recovery. But the depression remained, and I was able to agree on a course of medication with the doctor, which I then committed to.
Instinctively, I did the right thing. I had extreme anxieties and didn't really know how things would go on, but I obediently participated and took everything I was given. Fortunately, I know an antidepressant that works for me, but I also knew it would take patience and only show its effect after two weeks. They also wanted to give me anti-anxiety medication. However, I was smart enough, even though I was scared senseless almost daily, not to take such strong drugs. I'm aware that these can be addictive, and then you can quickly go from depression to addiction. My wish not to take tranquillisers was accepted, so now it was a matter of waiting and hoping that the antidepressants would take effect.
I've experienced this several times before, and you still worry it won't work. I also ended up there voluntarily. If you're violent or completely out of control, you have to take the strong stuff until you calm down or become addicted. This addiction then has to be overcome later in therapy. But then the inpatient stay doesn't last two weeks, like mine, but many weeks or even months. Sometimes, those affected never escape the addiction and their problems.
Fortunately, I had God. And even though I had behaved very wrongly, I felt He was there and that I shouldn't worry too much. I had prayed before and had always been in contact with Him through faith. But this illness, as I now know, is powerful and requires outside help.
If I've learned one thing during the most intense phases and in my life with God, it's this: antidepressants were made by humans to greatly help people like me.
Grateful for this, I made it my mission never to stop taking this medication again.
That was the biggest mistake of my life. I was never well-advised either. In retrospect, I clearly remember going to a church once and asking God for help. It was years ago, and I thought, "Now, hopefully, something will happen." But I left that church feeling rather disappointed.
Three months later, I realised that after that experience, I had actually made the decision to see a doctor and get help.
That was the first time I came into contact with antidepressants, and I should have stuck with them. But it was always the same pattern: I would feel better relatively quickly, and then at some point, I'd feel I didn't need the medication anymore. After a few months, it would all start again: back deep into the depths of fear and worry, and then waiting for the medication to work. I think this happened three or four times before my bloody days.
This event, as bad and wrong as it was, finally taught me what I needed to learn. If someone has Type 1 diabetes, no one discusses whether they should inject insulin or not. You either take it, or you die from hyperglycaemia. With diabetes, it happens very quickly, so you notice it immediately and have to react if you want to live. With my kind of depression, it's actually exactly the same, only it happens insidiously and much more slowly, but ultimately with the same result.
How many people lose their lives this way, unaware that it is an insidious disease?
Intuitively, when the bloody days happened, there was something inside me that said: "This is all meant to be."
That's hard to understand, but I really had that impression. Today, I also know that I didn't want to learn before how important antidepressants are. So, I had to learn the hard way.
Anyone who might think they have to be drugged up for the rest of their life is wrong. The minimal dose of one active ingredient is enough for me, and I am stable and far away from this illness.
Today, I see it as important to tell people that antidepressants, when used correctly, are a gift from heaven. And heaven, of course, is even more important. Both are needed, and you shouldn't confuse them with strong medications that are actually dangerous.
I also want to briefly mention: there is no magic pill that makes everything good. It's more of a support. But if you don't start by showing God gratitude in prayer for everything, the antidepressant won't manage it either. I think the way is to do one thing and not neglect the other.
I can hardly imagine anyone has read this far. But if you have, I hope the content has helped you somewhat or changed your perspective enough for you to make better progress.
If you have any questions about this difficult topic, please just send me an email. I would be delighted and wish you a healthy and pleasant time.
May no more bloody days ever come.
And hopefully, from now on, I'll be more inclined to write on my blog again. We'll see. Thank you for your attention.
Damian Maxson
21st December 2024
Grächen, Switzerland