The Agony of the Urge to Self-Destruct

I am here, in truthful self-analysis, for the very reason I read on an astute blog today, "I am seeking treatment for my life problem, not my heroin problem".  Ok, so I don't have a smack problem, but I have run through a whole series of stupefiants, intoxicating myself and my diseased soul with anything and everything that'd give even a fleeting moment of respite from my omnipresent self-loathing.  


I don't hate myself for hating myself, it is everything I've learned and everything I've ever known.  That was a weird sentence to write, but it really says a world to me.  In my head, I feel like I am at such a low point that I could actually start to rag on myself for being so harsh to myself.  


So, two strains are multiplying in the petrie today.  First is the blowback of the emotional events of yesterday with having taken my daughter to the hospital and watching her suffer as they tried to sort out what turned out to be a scratched cornea.  I am feeling the tightness in my chest from, I think, the fear that something was wrong with her that I couldn't fix and the feeling of powerlessness that I was very conscious of.  It took a real effort on my part, and I am not proud to say this, though I am proud of the outcome, to be there for her emotionally, and I just kept asking myself, in a loop, "what would I want a parent to do for me"...   The second strain is actually the first strain leaving me bereft and thinking about finding that easy solution.  I have thought a couple of times about logging into some of my old "trouble" accounts and seeing what is going on.  Not so much of an urge as a response to the emotionality that I feel.  It's an easy fix, I know, but I know that it isn't what I want.  Just the soupcon of an idea, that there's a solution to the churn in my heart.  


But as I write it out, I am suddenly feeling the idea sound ridiculous.  I know that writing a journal can be an important part of recovery, at least of the core of depression.  I chose to blog, in a semi-public way, frankly, because I want the accountability that comes with doing it this way.  I want to live without the net of being able to twist and turn my words if someone reads them and deny that it was me that wrote them.  I want to be open and honest and this is my baby pool in learning how to do that.  I will be honest here, in the guise of limited anonymity, but with the full knowledge that it can be read by people I love, should they stumble upon, or I point them to it.  I am not lying anymore and writing ensures that I can't. 


I am making slow progress, and it is flowing at the speed it is supposed to flow, not my forcing it.  I will admit the frustration, but I am trying to learn not to drive the bus.  It is a little discombobulating...  I need to fix my living problem.