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    Terminal Depression
    Terminal Depression
    Terminal Depression
    Ebook73 pages1 hour

    Terminal Depression

    By Mason B

    ()

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    About this ebook

    First time author Mason B. Beacher has written a truly riveting and heart-wrenching memoir from inside one of the country's most intensive psychiatric institutes, where life is locked down and fun is nearly forbidden. The original memoir is the story of a boy driven suicidal because of a doctor's mistake, a seizure, and his struggles with homosexuality, depression, diabetes, and chronic pain. This story has received praise from psychology professionals for how eloquently written and intense it is. Mason B. Beacher's masterpiece will have you laughing, crying, and on the edge of your seat as you read of hellish experiences including scandalous sex, suicide attempts, and assault and battery.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMason B
    Release dateSep 18, 2017
    Terminal Depression

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      Book preview

      Terminal Depression - Mason B

      terminal depression.

      By: Mason Beacher

      (An Original Memoir)

      mason.beacher@yahoo.com

      Foreword

      Every day there are approximately ninety-six suicides that occur somewhere in the United States; that is one death every fifteen minutes. That was almost me.

      My depression is peculiar in ways that can’t be explained in a simplistic fashion. But I easily can say that my depression has undoubtedly brought me to the verge of death multiple times. My nerve damage and diabetes can both be debilitating, and depression has the capacity to be equally if not more limiting. Major Depressive Disorder is a brain condition that disrupts my thinking, feelings, behaviors, interests, and nearly all aspects of life. In turn this results in social isolation, suicidal tendencies, and an altered domain of functioning in general.

      This story is an excerpt from my existence that depicts my struggle with suicide and homosexuality as well as intimacy, my stay in a psych ward, and even my private thoughts. The reason these aspects of my life are revealed is because this memoir was originally for my eyes only. It was an attempt to help me reflect on my improvements and show how things have gotten better.

      *Particular details have been changed for the sake of simplifying complicated matters along with discretion purposes, to protect certain people’s privacy*

      Prologue

      I turned the knob to the left. The stream of hot water beating down and running from my neck and shoulders down my body came to an end following its transition in temperature. I reached out from behind the shower curtain and grabbed a towel. I dried myself to a degree where I wouldn’t be dripping wet, then I got out of the shower and dried my hair more thoroughly and then wiped the fog from the mirror. I needed to make it so I could see myself in order for me to shave and brush my hair. After the fogginess on the mirror had been wiped away I put hair gel on my fingertips and ran it through my hair. Then I picked up a comb and parted my hair at the top left corner of my head. Once I was done and dry, I eased into a pair of well-fitted dark jeans, my favorite black tee shirt, slid on my fresh socks, stepped into sneakers, put on a gold watch, and then I eased a belt through the belt loops on the pants. Why would I need a belt if the pants fit me well? Style, maybe? I looked in the mirror and I decided I looked fucking good. To say my thinking was impaired and distorted would be an extreme understatement and doesn’t do my state of mind much justice, so I’ll just describe my thinking as twisted. The distortion in my thoughts and behavior must have been a result from the Prozac’s adverse effects and the head injury as well, as I can’t manage to completely align myself with how I was thinking. I just know I wanted to look good and feel fresh for what I thought were my final moments.

      I walked out of the bathroom and proceeded through my living room, past my big comfortable couch. Then carried on by the mudroom, and into the kitchen. I took one of the white and brown kitchen chairs and dragged it back through the living room and into the center of the mud room. I closed the blindfolds in the mudroom and living room so nobody would see what was about to happen. I took a deep breath.

      It’s time. I said under the breath.

      I walked back into the kitchen. I grabbed a blank sheet of paper and a sharpie. I then proceeded to write, Mom. Don’t come inside the house., in big noticeable letters. I didn’t want my mother to see me like that. I knew what I was doing was selfish, I wanted it to be as minimally painful for my parents as possible. I taped the note to the front door.

      I walked back into the mudroom and I then unbuckled the belt from around my waist and stepped up onto the seat of the kitchen chair, belt in hand. I wrapped the belt around the exposed wooden rafter in the mudroom’s ceiling directly above the chair with ease, and I started to feel a certain way. It wasn’t quite anxious, but more so like the way I feel when I am going up the tracks of a rollercoaster, and then butterflies are in my stomach and I feel this nervousness even though I know exactly what is coming.

      I placed my feet towards the edge of the chair, and rolled my ankles transitioning my balance from a flat-footed into a tippy-toe stance. My heart was beating harder than it ever had. It was like my heart was kicking and trying to escape from my body. As I stood on the chair, sweating and shaking, the curiosity of whether or not I’d be killed from a heart attack before I could continue on with what I was about to do had even crossed my mind at a point.

      I took the remaining span of the belt and wrapped it around my neck so tight I could hardly breath. Then adjusted it and fastened the belt buckle. My air intake stopped, nearly entirely. I felt anxiety begin to develop, as well. I could feel my heartbeat through my entire body, hard and fast. At this point the sound of breathing was substituted with the sound of my apprehensive heartbeats in my ears. badumb, badumb.

      It was silent, I was alone, I’m going to do it, I thought to myself, under the impression that dying was my best option.

      Then the process had begun. I was only on the chair by the tip of my toes. The belt felt like a snake with a fucking mind of its own. Both my hands were relaxed and by my side but the grip was so tight my neck hurt and I could hardly breath and I hadn’t even kicked the chair over yet. The belt was wrapped in a precise way that would ease it’s asphyxiating grip into an even tighter grip once the chair slipped out from beneath me and even break my neck if the force of the drop was enough. The more my

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