I had been endlessly googling ways to get out of here as fast as humanly possible and with as little pain as possible for about three hours.
Bleach.
Pills.
Jump.
All possibilities.
I had discovered in April of 2006 that razors and wrists are not exactly my style.
Suicidal ideation is my usual state.
I like it.
It is my safe place.
In this safe place, I only think of death.
It does require Herculean effort to actually kill oneself .
But this time my old friend anger had reared its ugly head and I knew I was in a shitload of trouble.
I am sitting in the emergency ward.
CNN this time.
Last time it was The New Adventures of Old Christine.
I had only managed to put ten hours in at work and if I ever had a talent to string sentences together and tell stories, I don’t remember that woman at all as I sit and watch the high definition television screen.
This woman is wreaking of body odor and can smell her own bad breath.
Deep depression has a foul odor about it.
It is an odor I know all too well.
Triage reports to me there is a shortage of beds for psychiatric patients.
My blood pressure is taken and questions are asked.
Do you want to kill yourself ? the pretty doctor asks me.
Usually, I just want to be dead but over the past week, I could feel some kind of rage coming out of nowhere, I answer.
Nowhere? she queries.
She is about thirty-seven and has nice hands. I have noticed how old my hands are getting lately.
I have fucked up everything, I begin to sob.
In July, I ruined my son’s wedding and I can’t forgive myself and I think I still love this man who is probably going to be the death of me…and this is the second time I have been here and in my heart of hearts, this is the truth Doctor, both times have been over a man and how fucking pathetic and sad is that and at my age I really should know better.
So you think your problem is men, Robyn?
I notice her wedding band.
I look at her shoes.
They are expensive.
I envy her.
I did the psychotherapy thing for 13 1/2 years. Can’t you just give me a shot in my ass and I can sleep this off and it will be better in the morning. It’s always better in the morning. I mean just being here makes me realize how dumb I am and maybe I want to live. Maybe, grandchildren are fun. I ruined their wedding. I shat all over my only child. And you know what the funny thing is all week I have been going on and on about how nobody understands the 3 basic rules of life. These are the golden rules I try to live by, this is how I think everybody should live their lives.
Intent.
Action.
Consequence.
Intent.
Action.
Consequence.
Read the Bible, read Shakespeare. Look everywhere in life and what stares back at you is those three things: intent, action and consequence. I am trying to sound wise and not sound like the crazy woman I feel like.
Did you intend to ruin your son’s wedding?
No.
And you haven’t acted out on any kind of suicidal impulse, she calmly points out to me.
And obviously you understand the concept of consequences since you have been beating yourself up since the summer. I think you understand those basic laws, you were talking about.
I don’t think the men I fall in love with do.
Is that a fact or could it just be your perception, Robyn?
I am going to see if there is a bed available and keep you for observation, the young and pretty doctor says to me.
I like it.
What? I mumble.
Intention.
Action.
Consequence.
I think they are really important rules to live by, she smiles.
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