Had a moment the other day when I took from the fridge the small basket containing all of my pills and set the bottles on the counter one by one. When I get to something like buproprion, sometimes, you know … sometimes I wonder how many of those pale, hospital green pills I’d need to take in order to set sail, to be gone. And I set the bottle of lorazepam on the counter in much the same way, staring at the dusty rock pile at the bottom, and wonder if I could do it, if I’m closer now than I was last week, last month, last year.
The thing is I think so. If I’m being honest, I think I’m getting closer all the time.
I don’t enjoy my days anymore. I wake up around ten and just lie there, awake. Sometimes I’ll stay in bed for an hour after waking up because there’s really no good reason to get up. And through the years it’s always kind of been this way. I’ve felt suicidal but always in a cowardly, apathetic way — like I’d be open to the idea, but not motivated enough to make it happen for real. And I’ve always had something to hold onto — some hobby, some intense, all-consuming interest. For a while it was art, and then music. Then it was chess. For the last two years it’s been writing. But lately I haven’t even been writing anymore. I sit down at the keys and think, This is too hard, I’m not into this. And then I start thinking about all the shit that waits for me later that day, how in five or so hours I have to shower, shave, and drive to a job I loathe; how, afterward, my mind will be so shot, so dulled down by the monotony of six hours on the phone handling customer’s issues, that all I’ll want to do is flop on the couch and watch the late shows. I’ll lie there and watch those beautiful movie stars, those promising bands, those funny comedians, thinking that if I were serious, if I ever wanted to someday have success like that, I’d be in the other room staring down my words on a different screen. But night after night it’s the same — I never get there. I never make the journey into that other room. The monitor stays dark. The words are never used. The potential stays buried. I fall into sleep and wake up and repeat the days and try, you know, try to get out of the hole, but it’s like the sides are all wet and muddy, and so dark down there, and it’s just impossible to find a steady hold.