Since I got out of the hospital a few weeks ago, I’ve had a very unusual recurring feeling: I get the impression that I was supposed to have died, that I’m in some kind of tangent universe and that if things don’t resolve themselves by Halloween, the universe is going to tear itself apart (if you have no idea what I’m talking about, go watch Donnie Darko.  That’s how I feel). 

I’ve been taking all my medications which is a good thing, but the feelings I had when I tried to end my life are still there.  The aching hole is right there, right there goddammit, and the medications can only cover over the pain, like the codeine you might use if you had a broken arm or a leg: you can mask the pain, but you still aren’t going to be able to put any weight on that broken limb and you know it. 

I feel, on one hand, like I’m trying to put my proverbial weight back on that proverbial broken limb while the plaster cast is still drying.  I also feel like I have no choice.  During the times where I think that spending a few extra days in the hospital might help me out, I also remember that we can’t afford for me not to work, that we can’t afford to pay for what our insurance refuses to cover (reason #5187 for socialized medicine, no matter how much we might be scared or even how much it might suck.  Can it really be worse than Cigna?). 

Looking at Christine last night, I apologized for getting us into the dire financial straits where we now find ourselves, that I’m sorry for trying to kill myself, that I don’t know what’s wrong with me except that I hurt so much and so much of the time.

Most of my suicide attempts in the past were ways of crying out for help from the pain that I feel– an effort to hurt myself in a visible and tangible way that others might recognize and respond to.  I hoped that someone would know how to help, or at least know who to talk to.  Cutting, for all the other issues surrounding it, was something along the same lines.  I didn’t know what I needed, only that I couldn’t find the way out on my own.  

The unusual thing about this most previous suicide attempt is that it wasn’t a cry for help, that I wasn’t looking for a way out– it was the white flag of surrender, my signal that I could no longer resist the siege.  In that sense, the final and hopeless act of desperation is scary: I didn’t want to make things right, I simply wanted to remove myself from the equation.  I failed, but it wasn’t for a lack of trying.  

I don’t know if living was an accident or providence, after all, there’s no script for real life. It’s the lack of answers, the lack of understanding, the complete unknowing, the uncertainty about how to move on that makes me feel like I’m in a movie, like I was supposed to die. I’m trying to move on and I don’t know how, as though I don’t know my lines anymore.  What I do know is that this isn’t done, this isn’t behind me.

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