Some mornings, usually the ones that don't include an alarm clock, I have a few moments to float -untethered, as of yet, to any responsibilities- in the dregs of my medication. I am bedwarm, clutching the last stuffed animal I bought her, its shape a familiar mold now to my arms and chest. I close my eyes, feel my body lift gently off the bed, become as buoyant as a bubble, and enter my wish state. There are two wishes - dependent on my current mental state and quality of sleep the night before- that operate on repeat in my head. I either wish her alive or wish myself dead.
Wishing her alive brings every sense alive. Since these morning daydreams occur mainly on the weekends, I rely on my weekend memories of her. I imagine her sleeping upstairs in her room - a major victory in and of itself, and a sign of her progress towards wellness- in a curled up bundle on top, not under, her covers (silly girl). Near her, or in her arms, her faithful stuffed animals and the Twilight blanket from last Christmas. On her pillow, more likely than not, a little dab of drool drying. Soon I would hear her footsteps overhead, and then the clunk of the door. There would be a "Hey Madre" or a "Morning sunshine" in my doorway before she would claim the couch, and turn on her favorite music videos in the living room. Padding in my slippers to the kitchen for orange juice, I would spy her cuddled on the couch in her favorite spot, singing along, maybe with Church in her lap. Sometimes she would have him dancing to her new favorite song. I would offer her oatmeal. We would plot our plan for the day. What movie? What outings? What shall we make for dinner?
WE, WE, WE.
Wishing myself dead is more a matter of shutting the door on every sense, and feeling at peace with that idea. The idea of closing my eyes one last time, and never having to open them again on a world of which she is no longer a part has a seductiveness that is unparalleled in my mind.
I know I'm only a few months in, but so far as I can tell it does not get easier. I feel like the people who said it would only wanted to string me along with a little bit of hope- keep me alive- and figured I would get used to the horror after awhile. When anyone says, "This won't hurt a bit", it's time to run for the nearest door.
Enjoying the last relaxing moments of my meds (let's face it, I don't feel "relaxed", I feel high as a kite), I enter rational thought a shade at a time. It usually ends with this: I can't make her come back to life; but I could end my own. That is always an option, always tucked away in the back pocket, always within reach. Some days, it doesn't look too damn bad.
So, as the lovely crisis counselor asked a couple of months ago, why haven't you?
I told him I was a wuss. Maybe.
More likely, the meds are making some much needed changes in my brain chemistry. I know that the thought of suicide is now a thought, when it used to be a detail rich, comforting, step by step plan.
I wrote about it. I drew it. I took steps- tangible steps- towards it. I scared the crap out of my friends and family. But perhaps the most telling, I scared the crap out of myself.
Now, when I have suicidal thoughts, they are usually that...thoughts. I think about not having to feel this way anymore. How would that be? What would that be like? Am I willing to pay the price? I ping pong back and forth; I make mental pro/con lists; I cry.
Then, I buck up and get on with it. (Okay, okay...I go online, order some more boots, then buck up and get on with it.)
Before, it was a little more involved.
See, Cory had been given every mood stablizer and anti-psychotic on the market. When they didn't work, the bottle went into the locked med box in case they popped up on the next combination that was attempted. When it came to stabilization, the drawing board was a popular, popular place. Add to all those medications, some sleep aides and anti-anxiety pills. We had a regular little pharmacy going. I had more than enough of the tools I needed to get the job done. It wasn't long before people started to realize this, and could read the death wish in my gaze. I did the only logical thing that could be done, and began squirreling meds away in various hiding places in the house. Just in case. The last thing I wanted was to be left without an out.
So I had the ammunition; next came the fantasies.
At first, I counted on the opportunity to be left alone. I didn't want Jake to have to find me. Eventually, it got so bad, I didn't even care about that. Let the chips fall where they may; just get me the hell out of this mess.
I pondered writing individual good-bye letters, but knew I wouldn't have enough time. One would have to do. Brevity is beautiful.
Then I just got down to he meat and potatoes.
I planned to take the pills with a tall glass of milk. Hopefully it would coat my stomach, so I wouldn't throw up. I would take them slowly, a little at a time, until I started to get sleepy.
I thought about the pills themselves, and how to make it meaningful. We had a ritual for everything in my family. Especially for Cory. Rituals brought her comfort. Even the very last time we'd spoken had been a ritual of sorts. Cory always had separation anxiety from me, since she was tiny. I found a little game to make saying good-bye on the phone more upbeat, and predictable. We sang our goodbyes. "Love you, bye!" (Insert trilling falsetto here). The very tone indicated saying good-bye was not so terrible, because the smile clearly heard in the other person's voice meant they were already planning the next time they'd see you. That was the last thing I said/sang to her, and the last thing she said/sangback to me. "Love you, bye!"
So how to make this good-bye meaningful?
Nineteen little piles, one for each year of her life?
Piles of three to honor the three years of suffering she endured?
There were endless possibilities. Believe me, when I say, I considered them all.
I figured that once I started to get sleepy, I would put a plastic bag over my head, and help things along. I'd lay down, and be done. Please, just let this be over.
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