Suicide

I am crying again. This is the third day straight. I am in the shower, hot pulsating water is flowing over me and it is doing nothing to dispel my misery, my aching loneliness. I wish this water would wash way my torment, dissolve me into the drain the way hot water will consume a sugar cube. Taking my atoms and bleeding them into the darkness of the pipes. I would feel better then; I would feel nothing at all.   
 
When I am not crying I am sleeping, and when my dreams do not damper the tears I again begin to sob. It is not about one particular thing. That would be easy and a welcome change. No this is something much deeper and harder to see. It calls to me and my soul whispering of how things could be, if I were to just let go. 
 
It is not that I do not see beauty in the world. It is not that I don’t have those to love me or that I don’t have those to love. I have no complaints about my life other then this tangle of sorrow. It won’t leave. It sings softly in my ear, trying to make love to me in my waking hours, it tries to caress me at night. 
 
My mother tells me my tears and sadness is not a good thing for my son to see, as if I didn’t know, as if I were somehow in control of them. His questions are just another slice into an already clawed heart. What do I tell him as he kisses the tears and tries to wipe them away, when I don’t even understand this myself?
 
The water is running cold and I turn the taps off. I wish it would be so easy with my own waterworks. I know this is just part of my illness. My pills have gone off balance, and I will need another stay in the hospital. I don’t want to go back there ever again. Twice has been enough. I can remember the screams, the pounding of the tenants as they try to escape the confines of the sequestering rooms. I can remember the drug induced stares of those who were not really there, perhaps would never be again. I can’t forget the ramblings of those who had more then one in there heads, the conversations turning into bubbling words of madness. No I don’t ever want to go back there. 
 
I sit down on the floor in my darkened bedroom and listen to the soft snoring of my son in the other room. I am haunted by memories. Fingers search through my dampened hair trying to sort through the mess. Tears again fall over my cheeks, soundless, to my chin and down my neck. I should have grooves in my skin by now, a river bed. I am scared. I am scared because I know what I want to do. I don’t know if I will be able to stop. I am more afraid that I will not finish. I go to the kitchen and reach above the microwave and into the cupboard. I grasp what I am looking for. It is smooth and circular, and orange. I go back to the bedroom with my prize. 
 
Sitting once again upon the carpet, I prop my head upon my knees and close my eyes. It feels better to have the pill bottle in my hand; soothing somehow. Like an ex-smoker with a cigarette over his ear no doubt. I pour the pills into my hand, they have no weight. In the navy blue darkness they are oblong and I can’t decide if they look more like Pez-dispenser candies or writhing maggots. I know that I could shove these into my mouth and they would dissolve quickly taking the decision out of my hands and making it concrete. It would take only moments before they were in my bloodstream. It would all be over. My pain would stop. 
 
I think of my son, and start to cry harder, trying to be quiet. He is so sweet and innocent. I cried for him and all he would see in the world. The ups and downs he would have and I prayed that he would have more good times then bad. I prayed that he would not get this illness that has plagued so many of us in my family. I stare at the white death in my hand, and wondered how many it would take. I didn’t want to wake up later and know of my failing. If I was going to do this it would have to be a one shot deal. I didn’t know if I would have the strength to go through this again. 
 
I took one of the pills and put it under my tongue, letting it dissolve into a bitter mass for a minute and then cleaned it out and over the inside of my mouth, and swallowed. I pondered what was going to happen to my soul. Should I even care? Some say that you go to hell; well I am already in it, what was worse then this? Others say you are destined to come again and live out the same story until you get it right. I hesitate then. I could not come back and do it all over again. There was no way. 
 
Another pill found its way into my mouth as I pondered these questions. What would I miss? My son of course, until this time he was all that was holding me to this world, as though there was still the umbilical cord attached between us. I would miss his hugs and kisses; the way his hair smelled. How could I do this to him, would he blame himself for what I did? How could I make him grow up in a hard bleak world with such a handicap? What would he tell his friends growing up about what happened to his mother. Would he hate me or understand?
 
I looked at the writhing maggots in my hand; they were beginning to take weight, my arm uncomfortable. My tears had dried, as had my mouth. One welcome side effect, the other not so much. The big question popped into my mind then. Who would find me come morning? Would it be my husband after working all night, or my son wanting his cheerios? The thought of my son standing over me in his toy story pajamas made my blood run cold. What the hell was I doing? Carefully I refill the bottle and put it back into the kitchen where I had retrieved them.
 
I need to get help. First thing in the morning I am making a call to my psychiatrist, maybe I won’t have to go to the hospital after all. 

© 2009 Tigra