I say all this because my roommate had a breakup. Got dumped. No fun for anyone. We all knew the guy was a jerk--including her--and so while it was a surprise, it left me feeling more relieved than anything. This was just before the weekend, even though they had some obligations over the weekend--which were held.
Weekend comes and goes, and it's Monday. I think about playing the drums, but it's the morning and she's probably still sleeping. But then she came home around noon and holed up in her room. Confusing to me.
Tuesday, same scenario. Still confusing but made worse by her more visible distress. While smoking on the back porch, I interrupt her solitude, trying to make conversation. I suggest we go get shakes. "Maybe," shivering and weepy.
When I'm in such a state, the last thing I want is to be around people. But I know everyone's different. I can't tell what she wants, what she needs.
She comes to find me after a bit. My hopes are raised: shakes? No. "If anyone comes looking for me, could you not let them in?" "Sure." "Thanks." I figure her now ex has threatened to come by, and she wants to avoid him.
I go to take a shower, get out, and go back to my room. There's been some moving around; the front door is unlocked. I get dressed. Halfway through, I hear people coming up the stairs. I hear unfamiliar voices coming in. I figure these are the people she wanted to keep out; too late. But then I notice the ambulance on the street.
I finish getting dressed and find her door closed, strange voices coming out. Eventually, the paramedics and two of her friends lead her out, wailing and sobbing, and they make their way carefully down the stairs.
There's a big cop car behind the ambulance with its lights on. After a few minutes, this stocky fast-talking cop comes up and grills me. "What's going on here?" I think to myself: "you're asking me? What the fuck. I want more answers than I can give." I figure he might know even less than I, so I tell him everything I know. "She broke up with her boyfriend over the weekend; she was sad and crying all day." I show him her room and we find a handle of vodka, borrowed from the well-stocked bar my other roommate keeps. And there's a note:
"I wanted to leave the room clean but I couldn't." -- in blue marker.
We can only assume what her intentions are. One housemate swears it was an accident; he's probably in denial. I am pretty confident the self-destruction was intentional--but to what degree? [I found out a day later she deleted her facebook profile.]
I wonder what I should have done differently and whether or not it would have had any effect. She's the type of person who relies heavily on substances to change how she feels--prescriptions for valium and anti-anxiety medication; self-medicated with alcohol. It's something I can't really relate to. I may have dabbled in this kind of thinking while getting through other romantic trauma, but I always learn the same lesson: substances are a distraction from the problem not the solution. In fact, this brand of thinking is more common among my roommates than I would have expected. Lots of drugs; lots of drinking--still somehow within reason but only just.
I'm prepared to assume that, anytime someone pollutes their body to such a degree, it is a sign of repression. Why don't we ever seek psychiatric help? Why do we wait until we completely fall apart? Health is one of those things that is improved by small increments over a long period of time--but can be destroyed much more quickly. The good news is, after a couple months of readjustment in which I've been somewhat depressed, I feel on some sort of track.
I have finally stopped worrying about not having a purpose, making finding a purpose my new purpose. It's at least a direction to find a direction.
Be well.
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