The following paragraph is from my personal journal, dated April 1, 2013:
The pills were waiting for me when I returned, staring up at me from the desk like so many blank faces. I wasn't sure why I had left them on the desk when I emptied the bottle; at the time, the bottle was what I'd wanted. Why didn't I throw the pills away? But they were there, and a small voice whispered that I knew what to do with them.
April Fools Day used to be one of my favorite holidays. Every year, I've planned some innocuous prank for my family and friends. Every year except this one.
It was the first weekend of my much-needed spring break. It was a shortened school week, and Friday was a half-day just for the teachers. I spent most of my day at school alone because my mentor had already served her mandatory three hours. I didn't have any more lesson planning to do because my internship was almost over at that point, so I cleaned the classroom and prepared some of her lesson materials for her.
I left school, took a nap, and then began packing for my trip up to Greensboro to visit my friend Lauren. I was in a hurry to leave my apartment, and I couldn't find my spare pill container. Then I remembered the sleeping pills my psychiatrist had prescribed that I had only taken once or twice before discovering they kept me awake. I had never bothered to get rid of the pills, and I was thankful because I needed the bottle they were housed in. I dumped the pills out on my desk and kept packing my bag. I glanced back at the pills and thought,
They'll be here waiting.
I wish I'd stopped for a minute and thrown them away. Instead, I brushed off the thought, closed my door, and left.
My time in Greensboro was a happy one, despite the incontinent kitty who kept threatening to poop on all my stuff and the futon I was sleeping on. Lauren has been one of my best friends for years, and I think she could tell that, even though I was having fun on the outside, something had gone horribly wrong on the inside. I remember surfing the internet, catching up on our boy talk, and exploring coffee shops and restaurants in town. All the things that were supposed to be fun.
We went to
Geeksboro to watch the latest
Doctor Who. I knew I was supposed to be having a good time. I was in a frigging geek-themed coffeehouse (yay, overpriced sugary coffee-like beverages married to all my favorite entertainment) watching my favorite television show with my best friend. All of those things should have made me happy, but they didn't.
Later that Saturday night, we decided to get sneak into her old college's art studio and get drunk while making art. I learned a lot about myself that night. For one thing, my body's reaction to different types of alcohol is weird. I've had up to six shots of hard liquor and was not drunk. But two glasses of wine and a wimpy flavored beer did me in that night. Another thing I learned is that I'm a very happy, tuneful drunk. I suddenly knew all the lyrics to the music we were listening to, and I sang right along. Not a single fuck was given, unlike when I sing any other time. From what Drunk Lauren could tell me, I have a pretty singing voice. I started to fall asleep on the carpet in a pile of charcoal pencils, indicating it was time to leave. We stumbled through the mile and a half to Lauren's apartment and went to bed. I was, for the first time in a long time, blissful.
On Sunday I learned that I should never, ever drink again. No, I wasn't hungover, not in the headache-y, nauseated way. But all of the sadness I had been trying to push away all weekend (and who knows how long before that) fell on me all at once.
I wanted to die.
I tried stalling for as long as I could before heading the 120 miles back to my own apartment, but eventually I had to leave. I couldn't bring myself to tell her what was going on, although I think she was perceptive enough to know there was something wrong.
I sped the whole way home, often going as fast as my ages-old car would allow. I cried off and on throughout the trip. It's a miracle I wasn't pulled over for speeding or killed in some accident for all the attention I paid to driving my car.
When I got home, I dropped my bags on the floor of my room and glanced at the pills. They were still there on top of some school paper I'd left out. I looked up at my calendar and laughed. It was March 31. If I did this late enough, people would find out I was dead on April Fools Day, which I found absolutely hilarious. I know that I have a warped sense of humor, but looking back, I'm appalled that I ever found that funny.
I invited my roommate Sarah to join me for dinner in the cafeteria. I wasn't sure why I wanted to eat dinner or why I wanted to eat dinner with her; I think I wanted to say goodbye and eat bacon one last time. Maybe I was stalling, hoping to change my mind. There's a part of me that's always felt that she didn't really want to eat with me, that she may not have had the time to that day; but she was kind enough to do so, and for that I'm thankful. I remember trying to be cheerful for her, all the while wanting to say goodbye. I just didn't have the words.
After she returned to the art studio, I went back to our apartment. I remember our roommate Ashley was in the living room, watching one of my favorite movies,
Ghost World while she worked on her own art projects. I sat down to watch it with her, but I couldn't connect to the movie. The two characters I'd always admired for being quirky and cynical outcasts were now bitchy and hollow. I remember mentioning this to Ashley, who commented that two high school seniors must seem very young to me, a fifth year senior at university. I agreed with her, with another pang of sadness.
Ashley asked how my trip was, and I told her it felt like every minute I spent with Lauren was another goodbye, and that I felt the same way when I ate dinner with Sarah.
She looked up from her project. "What, are you moving away?"
"No."
I opened my laptop and made a post on my Facebook:
goodbye.
I closed the laptop and went to my room. And there the pills were, on my desk, waiting. Only I didn't take a drink with me.
You can't take a bottle of pills without a drink, dumbass, I told myself and started crying. I didn't have the mental energy to go back to the kitchen for a drink of water or one of my roommate's beers. All I seemed to have energy for was crying and abusing myself and laughing hysterically.
My phone rang.
Lauren. There she was, demanding to know what was going on. I don't remember what I said to her; I don't think I was coherent enough
to remember. But she understood that I had pills, 28 prescription sleeping pills, and that I intended to use them. She asked if there was anyone who could "keep the pills in a safe place" for me. I said no, Sarah wasn't home, Ashley didn't get it. Instead of giving the pills to someone else, Lauren made me promise to flush them down the toilet. I did so, and verified that I hadn't just flushed so she could hear.
The pills were gone.
She kept me on the phone for another half hour. I don't remember what she might have said to me; nor do I remember anything I said to her. I only remember crying, some mix of anger and relief.
The next morning, I woke up alone. My roommates were all in class. I stayed in bed all day, listening to a reading of
The Bell Jar on YouTube. For a long time, I did not move, did not dress, did not eat. When I did decide that remaining alive meant that I
had to eat (at least anorexia has never been among my problems), I dressed and walked to the cafeteria, shrouded in a complete mental fog. People, including an old boyfriend, spoke to me as I bought my lunch. I saw their mouths moving, but I failed to hear the voices coming from them. I wanted to speak, to reply, but my mouth felt glued shut. It was probably useless to say anything, since I hadn't heard what was said to me.
I walked slowly back to my apartment, crying. I don't remember what I ate. I don't know what I did the rest of that day. I only remember feeling angry and resentful that I was alive, that my method of escape had been taken from me.
But deep down, I knew it was my choice to survive.
Edit: After one of my friends read this and responded privately, I decided it would be a good idea to add this--
I'm okay now. I have good days and bad days. The important thing is that I'm taking steps to have more good days than bad ones. I have a support system comprised of family, friends, and licensed professionals.
I'm getting better.
