Wake Me Up When September Ends

     In the days that followed my mind seemed more cluttered than it was on that Thursday afternoon.  Now, not only was I depressed, but extremely ashamed of my actions. I couldn’t believe I had taken something that at one point was no more than a thought and made it into an “almost.” I didn’t know whether I should tell anyone. If I did, who would I tell?  A lot of people seem to think I’m this brave and inspirational soul, which I never agreed with, but with that being said I never wanted anyone to know how weak and distraught I was either. I was worried what everyone would think of me, and that I would forever be labeled as “crazy.” It wouldn’t be long before I had my first “scare,”of being confronted with the question, “what happened to your wrist?” As my stomach pain came back into play.

     The following Sunday afternoon I found myself lying on the couch and in such extreme stomach pain that I called the on call GI, and I was mentally preparing myself for a trip to the ER.  Sprawled out on the couch waiting for the doctor to call (which never happened) my worries became less about my pain as I looked over at the scars on my wrist. I know the protocol for ER visits, and one of the first things they were going to do is take my blood, and there would be no hiding what I had done to my wrist.  Immediately my mind goes into overdrive trying to come up with answers to the inevitable.  First thought  that came to mind: I would just laugh it off, make the doctors/nurses feel silly for even assuming something so asinine, but I couldn’t go too overboard with my reaction as I didn’t want it come off rehearsed, maybe that wasn’t best idea.  My next thought was to remind them that I was left handed, and the scars were on my left wrist, and if I was to try and slit my wrist wouldn’t  it be my right? Then I thought, “Wait, they’re going to know somethings up if I was to come up with some elaborate story about why I would, or wouldn’t slit one wrist versus the other due to being left handed.” Fortunately my pain started to dissipate which in turn lessened the concern for having a plausible story.

     So inadvertently I was able to dodge that “bullet,” but how long would I be able to? I knew that due to my reclusive lifestyle by the next time I saw anyone chances are my wrist would be healed, but was I hurting myself even more by not saying anything?  Even though I don’t agree with the labels of “inspirational,” and “brave” that’s all I had, and I didn’t want anyone to know “the real me.” I was afraid of how the people closest to me would feel; I could only imagine what others would think.  Why am I so consumed with how I’m viewed? Who am I? What have I become?!?!

A Thursday in September

     I cleaned up my apartment with the thought in mind that somehow I was helping whoever was unfortunate enough to find me.  With a clean apartment and a cluttered mind, I dug through my closet and pulled out the buoy knife I had purchased when I was thirteen with my mother’s credit card.  I pulled the knife out of its sheath and it was bigger than I had remembered. I then ran the knife up my arm and it shaved the hair clean off.  This was it, It was so surreal, but I was about to take my own life.

 

     I had been living in pain for entirely too long and it was starting to take its toll. Whether it was bladder or pancreatic pain, every day I was suffering and my quality of life was starting to come into question.  As if chronic pain wasn’t enough my blood work comes back amiss. Turns out my pancreas isn’t producing enough insulin, so I’m now being monitored for yet another disease.

 

     The connection between body and mind is definitely strong because my depression was getting worse.  Inexplicable sadness and crying in the shower have become a part of my new daily routine.  I’m pushing people away because I can no longer tell them “I’m fine." The truth is I’m going to lose it; it’s all just a matter of time.

 

     As days go by my hope for tomorrow starts to wither and fade.  When I hit my knees at night I’m praying to not to wake.  But sure as the sun rises my eyes open and my prayers go unanswered, my sadness turns into anger and the tone of my prayers start to change. “God, people are dying everyday who are fighting for their lives, here I kneel before you, begging you to let me die.”

 

     So, here I am knife in hand ready to end it all. I’ve never made it this far. I’m more than scared and unsure of what to do. I remember seeing in the movies people slitting their wrists in the bathtubs, so I get in fully clothed and assume the position.  My hands start to tremble as my eyes well up with tears, I hold the blade to my wrist while barely applying any pressure, and then I look down and notice that I’ve already broken the skin.

 

     I don’t know why it took this long, but with seeing the blood, the reality of the situation sets in.  Light sobs and tears turn into full blown crying and weeping as this could possibly be it.  Then I start to wonder if what they say is true, that people who take their own lives spend eternity in hell.  With the fear of being cast into hell; I say the Lord’s Prayer as I push the knife deeper into my wrist, hoping that I will be looked upon with pity, and be reunited with my loved ones in Heaven.

 

     The pain is too much I drop the knife, and scream out, “what is wrong with me!”  I leave the bathroom, crawl into bed and have a complete breakdown.  I grab my phone call my shrink, he answers, “Kris what’s going on?” To which I reply, “Doc, I don’t know, but somethings really wrong with me, I just spent the last hour in my bathtub with a Fuckin knife at my wrist.”