“Sad? Why should I be sad? It’s my birthday. The happiest day of the year.” From ‘Winnie-the-Pooh’, by AA Milne
I nearly succeeded. I ended up in the hospital, in A&E, being pumped out, and then spent a few days hooked up to a drip. The worst of it was that I felt even more hopeless when I came to and realised that I was still alive. I’d always counted on suicide as a last-ditch option for when life became too unbearable, yet here I was, and it hadn’t worked. Despair doesn’t begin to do justice to my state of mind at that time.
And I was never the kind of person who came into contact with illegal drugs, nor would have had the courage to go and find a dealer - my anxiety around people was so great it precluded any such interactions, unless drunk. So, since my creative use of medication didn't begin until after I got sober, I was kind of limited: which was, undoubtably, a good thing, as it turns out. Who knows what type of mess I could have gotten myself into, being such a naive and gullible innocent, and not just with the drugs themselves. You kind of get the picture? One addiction/compulsion replaces another.
“And many happy returns to you, Pooh Bear.”
“But it isn’t my birthday.”
“No, it’s mine.”
“But you said ‘Many happy returns’-“
“Well, why not? You don’t always want to be miserable on my birthday, do you?”