Inside a suicidal mind… circa 2001 – a bad day/series of bad days)

I have decided to kill myself. This is really the best course of action for all parties. Let me explain.

This morning, like every morning for a long time, my first thought upon waking is ‘Oh shit, I’m awake.’  But for the third day in a row, I am glued to the sheets; I physically cannot get out of bed.  I try, really I do, but I’m swimming in thick syrup, there is so much resistance.  I have slept for twelve hours, but I’m exhausted at the thought of getting up, having to put socks on, conversing with other humans. The thought makes me cry, because I used to like conversation.  I lie here and my head is full of static; thoughts all tangled up and I beg, please be quiet, I’m so tired.   I want to go back to sleep because that’s the only time there is peace in my head.

The rest of the house is awake; the phone is ringing, the front door opens and shuts and cars whiz in and out, but I can’t move and my mind is torturing me.   I can’t remember when I last showered or brushed my teeth or shaved my legs, and I don’t care to.  And I don’t care that I don’t care.  I’m filthy and disgusting and I don’t care and it makes me cry and I don’t care.

French comes home at midday and knocks on my door.  I say nothing but he opens it anyway.  “Come on,” he says. But I can’t come on, and he sighs and leaves, and tears slide down my cheeks because all I ever do is let him down.

In the afternoon there are whispers in the hallway and Stace stands at the foot of my bed with her arms crossed. “You could get up,” she says.  “you have arms and legs.”  She speaks of my behaviour as if it is a choice; as if I am a child wanting attention.  I wish I could explain – that she can see arms and legs, but they will not function.  That I exist in front of her, but I am not actually here.  Instead, I laugh, because it must seem so simple from the outside.  “Of course,” I say.  “Just get up.  Why didn’t I think of that?”  I face the wall because she is looking at me like I’m someone she used to know, someone who was fun.  I have been replaced by a joyless, sarcastic lump.

“There’s a lot to get up for,” she says. Oh my god the condescension.

“Like what?”  I ask.  I’m not being sarcastic, I really can’t remember.

“Like, we could go the beach later?”

I say nothing. I can’t even be bothered pretending to be interested.

“Alright, I’m leaving,” she says, because I’ve exhausted her supply of positivity.  “I’m making white chocolate and raspberry muffins.” One last go at getting me up – the promise of sugar.  This desperation makes me sad.

I envy her, because she can walk away from me.

There are more whispers in the hallway later (“what should we do?  What’s wrong with her?”).  I am sick of being the cause of whispers in the hallway; of eye-rolling and arm-crossing and tut-tutting.  I’m sick of the feeling I get when I walk into a room and the conversation stops. They’re on eggshells because they’re terrified of me; they tip-toe around me cautiously as if I were a pet snake no-one trusts not to bite the visitors.

I can’t tell you how bad I feel about this. I do realise that I am an inconvenience and a burden. I do see that they no longer come to me with their problems; they have stopped giving me opinions and telling me the truth because they’re scared I’m going to jump off a bridge and it will be their fault.  That is ridiculous, because I’ve always been the person people come to with their problems.  That’s who I am… Was. When did I stop being that person? I liked that person way better.

I am furious with them.  But how can I blame them?  I’m unbearable.  I cry for no reason and five seconds later I am distant and unemotional.  I go for days without talking.  I snap and I say mean things; then I’m sorry and my cheeks burn with shame because I am a horrible person.   I hate this person.

How I can feel like this when I have a perfectly nice life and there are AIDs victims and starving people in Africa who would love a raspberry and white chocolate muffin? I have fresh water and shoes, and if this wasn’t enough, I have real gold jewellery and a I’m getting a university education.  I am selfish and ungrateful and the guilt makes me nauseated

That’s it.  I can’t do this anymore.  I have to kill myself.

The decision is empowering.  It calms me and gives me focus, and I have enough energy to extract myself from the bed sheets.  I put my dressing gown on – the one with one big pocket. My body feels heavy, like I’m moving through quicksand.

Downstairs, the muffins are underway and I ask if I can help.  Stace smiles.  “See,” she says.  “I told you it was easy.”  People love it when they know best; they love a good I Told You So.

I force my face to smile back. (Consciously. I think, smile, face).   She gives me the batter to mix. I take it to the other bench, so our backs are to each other.

“Who keeps ringing?” I ask. I open the drawer for the whisk and I remove the kitchen knife and put it in my pocket.

Stace is pouring herself a glass of wine.  “That guy who likes Claudia.  The one who talks real fresh.”

I think of something to say. Conversation no longer comes naturally to me; I force myself to talk because that’s what you’re supposed to do. “Are you feeling better?” I ask, because I think she had a UTI a couple of days ago, but it’s hard to remember things. I think it might have turned into a kidney infection.

“Better, yeah.”

“Do you have any of those painkillers left?  I have a headache.”  She bought home Tramadol from  A&E. I act like I think they are paracetamol.

“Sure,” she says.  She’s pleased that I am participating in conversation.   She goes into the dining room, fossicks through her handbag, and swaps me the pills for the whisked muffin batter.  She concentrates on pouring it into the muffin tins and doesn’t notice that I take four (I’m suicidal, but I don’t intend to feel death).

I to go down the hall towards the the toilet, but I slip sideways into French’s room instead and take the swiss army knife from his bedroom drawer.  It was a 21^st present from his dad.  I saw him cut through a rubber hose with it once and remembered where he kept it, in case things ever got that bad…  This bad.

Back in the lounge, we watch TV.  I try to concentrate on what Stace is saying, but in my head I am busy preparing and it’s a noisy business.   I’m smiling and nodding, smiling and nodding, saying ‘yeah,’ and ‘oh,’ and ‘true,’ in the appropriate places.  I’m happier than I have been in months, because this will all be over soon.  I’m so relieved.

Mark comes home.  There is more talk.  I smile and nod, smile and nod.  Then I go outside for a cigarette in the dark.  My movements are awkward because I’m trying not to let the metal objects in my pocket clang together.  I hobble over near the letterbox were I saw some broken glass.  It’s still there and I pick up a shard and drop it in my pocket.

The neighbour’s spaniel comes down the street with his ball and jumps up, insisting that I play with him.  I crouch and roll the ball.  He fetches it and brings it back.  We fight over it, then he acquiesces and I win.  Then I roll it again.  I like the dog because he doesn’t tut-tut or eye-roll or whisper behind my back.  I can never let him down because he’s happy with whatever I give him.  I’m so grateful that I kiss him and tell him Good Boy and he thinks all his Christmases have come at once.  I cry into his fur.  I am allergic to him, but that hardly matters now.

French’s car pulls into the driveway.  “You’re up,” he says.  He pats my hair on his way past and rolls the ball for the dog.  He doesn’t tell me off for smoking, which means he’s relieved that I’m in better spirits.  I can’t look at him, because he’ll be the one who picks the lock and finds me.  He’ll try to save me but I’ll be gone.

I follow him inside.  “I think I’ll have a bath,” I say.  I watch my flatmates watching TV.  Doing it in the house isn’t ideal, but having just made the decision I don’t have time for elaborate planning.  They’ll be sad.  They’ll wonder how they could have missed it.  But they’ll be okay; they’ll have careers and overseas trips and marriage and babies, and they’ll forget.  They are better off without me, and I am better off dead – without this body that won’t move and this mind that won’t stay still.  There will be peace and quiet, and I’m looking forward to it.

Going up the stairs, I feel woozy.  I go into the bathroom and turn on the taps; spread my three instruments out on the floor and poke my finger with each to ascertain which is the sharpest.  The piece of glass I picked is dull, and I can’t smash it because I can’t afford the noise.  The kitchen knife is also useless and wouldn’t even break a tomato skin, because Mark brought it and he is a tightarse and everything he buys is cheap.   But the swiss army knife is super sharp and draws blood…  I was hoping so, the others were just insurance.  I can’t really feel it much, so the tramadol must be working.

T he bath is ready, scalding hot, and I lower myself into it.  If I’m lucky I’ll pass out from the heat and drown instead.  I often hope for accidental, painless death that I won’t know about, but I’ve never been that lucky. I hear the phone ringing. I wrap my t-shirt around my face so I can bite down on it, and I have one last go at trying to talk myself out of this.

Your mother will be upset.

But she’s already upset.  She can’t help me so she thinks she is inadequate as a mother. I am doing her a favour.  This is a good thing.

You’re only 20.

And I’m living as thought I’m dead, so I might as well be.  This is a good thing.

My god, this is thr best I’ve felt for months!  I press the blade to my wrist.

There’s a knock on the door.  “Phone for you.”

I get a fright and drop the knife; I slither around trying to find it.  “I’m in the bath,” I yell.  There is no way I’m backing out now, I’m too close.  If I get out now I’ll change my mind again then I’ll berate myself for my lack of follow-through, which will make me depressed. “I think you’ll want to answer it,” French says.  “It’s that deer hunter guy.”

Oh, of course it is.  That deer hunter guy with his impeccable timing.  You haven’t called me for months.  I bet you’ve been having a mini-relationship, freaked out and run away, and now you’re in need of ego stroking.  You need your Blankie to sooth your insecurities.  Well, fuck you, I am not 0800-Dial-A-Blankie.  Who the hell do you think you are?  I am fully committed to this and I am not getting out of the bath.

I find the knife and press down on my wrist.  Then I picture you with the phone to your ear, waiting for me to answer, wondering what’s taking me so long.  Maybe you’re hurting, maybe you are lonely and sad and feeling worthless.  Not that you would tell me, but still.

Didn’t I promise myself I would always answer the phone for you? Am I not also committed to that?

Tears blur my vision and the knife is out of focus.  What if you found out I stayed in the bath and slit my wrists instead of taking your phone call?  Well, I’m not having that on my conscience.

I get out of the bath and hide my tools in the back of the vanity behind the pipes.  I put my dressing gown on, and I take a deep breath and put on a happy face as I pick up the phone. I am so good at fake happy.

“Hello?” I am surprised at how cheerful I sound.

“Fuck,’ you say.  “I was almost asleep.”

The sound of your voice always soothes me, even when you are being obnoxious. “Sorry, I was in the bath.”

“Were you playing with yourself?”

I can’t help but smile. “What else would take me half an hour?”

You laugh, and that’s all it takes for my mind to be still.  I can never be sad when you are laughing.  I go into my bedroom and curl up in the blankets with the phone.  “What’s been going on?” you ask.

“Oh… Muffin making.  Playing with the dog.  Watching a documentary about the Elephant Man.”  Killing myself.  “You know, the usual…. hey I I took some painkillers, so I might fall asleep on you.”

“That’s ok. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Since when do you say things like that? You never say things like that.

It’s like you knew, but that’s impossible.