Suicide, Skid Row & Tacos
I’ve never been suicidal, but have certainly acted suicidal. It’s part of my disease. It’s kinda ridiculous when I break it down.
My thought process is somewhat funny to me. I think to myself, I have wayyy to much to offer in this lifetime and so much to do, so how can I even imagine offing myself? I can’t. My manic, inflated self-esteem that produces grandiose ideations about myself keeps me alive. HOWEVER, that invincibility that characterizes manic people has gotten me in some serious trouble.
Before I was diagnosed and medicated, I lived in New York City. I would fly through the streets, hitting up that club or meeting that new person, and looking back, although I was not “suicidal,” I acted suicidal. My invincibility made me put myself in suicidal situations. There is a big difference between the two but both of them can end badly. It’s kinda scary. Mostly because I am thirty-five years old now and things haven’t changed.
Even now with my medication, I still think I am invincible. I have put myself in hazardous situations which could result in harm, but can’t seem to help myself. It’s part of my personality and I don’t want to change that, but when I decide to take a walk through Skid Row in Downtown LA in the middle of the night with no qualms about putting myself in a dangerous situation, it’s acting suicidal.
Do I really need that taco in East LA at two in the morning? Yes, I do. They are the best tacos in LA and I need it, and I want it, so I’ll get it. I’ll saunter down the grimy streets of Skid Row la-dee-da with no fear for a freakin’ taco and it’s stupid. But I don’t change and quite frankly I don’t want to.
I don’t want to walk in fear but I don’t want to die ’cause I have no fear. It’s a complex situation that has caused me pain and pleasure. I may be reckless sometimes, but I’m doing what I want to do. I don’t let people tell me what to do or think or be. Some people would love to live free of what other people think, but that comes with a price.
Having said that, I probably should think twice next time I need a taco past Skid Row. I should break out my binoculars and take a good look at the homeless cracker jacks wandering the streets outside my loft windows. It’s just a taco, Erica, okay?!
No. I’ll find a way to get it. I’ll wait for the bus and ignore the drug dealers asking me if I want some Seroquel or Wellbutrin to snort. Since when do the homeless pimp out drugs that I have in my prescription drug cabinet? Since when did prescriptive drugs replace crack? Maybe it’s easier to score or something. I don’t know. We live in a Pharmaceutical Nation, so…
Needless to say, I may not be invincible, but I’m not going to deny my mind’s desires. Or my tubby ass some carne asada. I don’t want your Valium, I have my own cabinet of drogas. Just let me get my taco, okay?!
Tacos photo available from Shutterstock
Loberg, E. (2012). Suicide, Skid Row & Tacos. Psych Central. Retrieved on September 26, 2017, from https://blogs.psychcentral.com/manic-depression/2012/08/09/suicide-skid-row-tacos/