NEW PUBLICATION: How My Childhood Cat Saved Me After My Suicide Attempt.
Red curtains move in the wind of an open window. Warm wind then, on warm sunlight, peers through. Long sunlight fingers push aside the air. Dust floats. My cats like to lay in this type of sun and I like to sit with them, letting my socks get warm and warm my feet. Outside there are bugs and branches and leaves turning red. The play-dough scent of apple branches being pruned from their trunks evaporates around me even as I write. The smell of hardwood. The smell of sweet apple flesh and hazelnut candles. Pine trees at the top of the yard are green and settle their stout bodies against the cooling topsoil. People lean on one another in the face of gathering winter. For now, it’s still autumn. For now, we still have to use all our apples up and fix the snowblower and stitch our jeans and prepare the house for colder weather.
The days grow shorter and darker and before we know it snow will arrive and we will be buried up to our necks in it. The cats will stop shedding and pack on some winter weight.
The weather allows for hot showers now and I take ones that border on the cusp of being too hot. When I shower I do it at night with the lights off. Letting the water rinse the coffee grinds and chewed nails and dried skin away.
Odd to think that I still don’t know myself. After all this time alone we never became acquainted. I am an introvert afraid of other people. This includes me.
When I look in the mirror I don’t see myself anymore. I see a self made new by flesh. By antipsychotics and antidepressants. By new scars and new wrinkles and new stretch marks. I see a new body and a new brain. But I don’t see myself.
It’s hard, having been so many things. Flashes of an aging young adult who never got to know herself. I was a kid once. A kid who always kept my hair cut short. A kid who needed braces but never got them. Once upon a time, I was a tomboy. An arm wrestler in the fifth grade who could beat the boys. For a while, I was a confused preteen. Baggy pants and tight shirts. A teen who didn’t want to have sex. An anorexic. A kid who, while good reading books, was poor at reading people. I obsessed over spirituality and religion. Questioning everything to the point of insanity. I was homeless. I was a runaway. I was unhealthy. Underweight. Sick. Bedridden. Paralyzed. Non-Epileptic (PNES). Dependant. A smoker, god forbid. Someone buying drugs in the back seat of a station wagon that wasn’t my own. Having sex without enjoyment. An all A’s student attempting suicide in the middle of the night. A self-harmer. A frequent flyer at the hospital. Psychotic. Manic. Depressive. Confused. Boney. Absent. Schizophrenic. Bipolar. Schizoaffective. Catatonic. A nighttime-midnight-in the dark-showerer. A nighttime-walker. Empty. Lost. Someone who wished they were dead but ended up happy to be alive (well most of the time.) A college dropout. I used to be someone who listened to the voices. Someone who followed the hallucinations.
And then came the antipsychotics and all the things I’d ever been came fullstop. Now I’m soft and bitter and my brain is full of Seroquel soup. I’m caught between meds having saved my life and having destroyed it. Of course, I should say that Schizoaffective Disorder did the destroying. Sluggish waves with no force behind them turning my psychotic wheels. Caught between wanting recovery and wanting destruction. For being happy for new my health and being spiteful of it. Between being accepting of antipsychotics and believing the benefits to be disingenuous.
Out of all the things I’ve ever been I’ve never known any of them for very long.
I want to see that change but I can’t say I know for sure that they will. Of course, this year went by faster than apples are falling from their branches this autumn. If I close my eyes and hold my breath and take my meds perhaps another year will move on like this one did. Fast and without too much sadness.
TW FOR MENTIONS OF SUICIDE
Maybe I wanted to die. Wanted to die for real. Collapsed on the dorm room floor. The jar of pills rolling from the edge of my desk and scattering across the floor like candy. In what would’ve been my last moments, regret would’ve filled my body like the pills filled my stomach. Like cement. In those last moments, I would’ve had the will to live but not the strength to pick up the phone and dial 9-1-1.
Luckily, I had both. Coming back from the edge and learning to see again.
That’s how depression works. It’s much like blindness. For it’s not darkness you feel even in your darkest moments, it’s nothingness. As huge and heavy as the entire ocean in your chest, and as silent and empty as a room with only a whirring fan at its center.
It’s soft and quiet and filling and hypothesizing. It’s exhausting like nothing else you’ve ever felt. And before you know it it’s got you and all you want to do is close your eyes and die.
And eventually, you might try. And it will be up to you in that moment to decide whether you really want it. And you will either pick up the phone and call for help or you won’t. That will be up to you, and I hope you make the choice. It will either be the last decision you make or the first one on the path of change. That’s your call, quite literally.
Don’t give up if you can help it. Because somewhere, someone or something is going to teach you how to swim in that ocean that fills your body. And if you want it, you’re going to get better.
I lined up all my pills as I poured them from the bottle. I straightened them out like moon phases. Waxing and waning green caps of Gabapentin all the way across the brown dorm room desk. There were a lot. I finished the note, signing shakily at the bottom. I folded it up and pressed it into the corner of the desk. And then I gathered all my courage and put one pill in my mouth. I swallowed it. So every pill became easier than the previous. At first a few and then more and more. I found myself shoving them into the corners of my mouth and crying out and swallowing too may gulps of water until I had spilled it all over myself. I was sobbing by the end. I took almost my entire bottle of Gabapentin and then, I began to shake. I tried very had to stay quiet. Hands pressed to my hot face, trying to hold the crying back. Thinking over and over that I was undeserving of this spectacle, of this life. I wondered how well this would work if I couldn’t manage to stay still? How long would it be until my liver began to metabolize the toxic dose I’d taken? I focused on my breathing. In and out and in and out and in and out. A cell phone clutched in my right hand now, knuckles white. My left hand on my chest, below my heart. An inconsistent madness settling at the back of my throat.
I tried to wait for death but I was too scared, too impatient for the silence.
“My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
“Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
“What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
“I never know what you are thinking. Think.”
“I think we are in rats’ alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.”
I recall A Game of Chess. Next comes, The Fire Sermon. The Burial of the Dead. “April is the cruellest month, breeding/Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing/Memory and desire,/stirring/Dull roots with spring rain.”
My brain is twitching now, spasms at the bottom of my brain stem. My entire frame begins to tingle and it is then that I call for an ambulance. I don’t want this. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I fucked up. I started having a hard time breathing. The next part happened in pieces. Police appeared. Flinging back the door. Only to see me now, my left hand still near my heart my other now wrapped around a crinkled suicide note. My eyes, I imagine, filled with tremendous pupils.
“I don’t-” was all I could manage before falling to the ground like a sack of laundry.
Then it was the paramedic’s turn to arrive.
At some point, I pissed my pants.
After that, I don’t remember much.
I do I remember all the kids in the dorm looking at me as they carried me away. I should’ve thought about this part, even in my incoherence there is a sense of embarrassment. That nervous hot air pressed close to my face. My chest hurt. And I remember the bright insides of the ambulance. Tubes and wires and needles and cuffs and lots of nitrite gloves all bathed in argent light. Red, blue, and white flashes on my pale skin.
Then the hospital.
And then a nurse, “This could do some damage,” she said.
She seemed huge and looming. Like a taciturn giant at the foot of my bed. Her hands wrinkled and she wrung them together as if trying to squeeze water from them. Was she too a hallucination? Was nothing real anymore? Even the nurses were fake and huge like cartoon characters. Between the drug overdose and Schizophrenia, I knew very well that I couldn’t be sure of anything.
Then she checked my IV and was gone.
I lapsed into a deep sleep. And every second sleeping there was a sense of regret. I had strange dreams. Dreams of Christmas lights. Of dog-eared thrift store books, of dust settling in sunlight. Of my childhood cat somehow there with me, in the hospital, I could hear her purring but I couldn’t see her. I dreamt about hot coffee on cold mornings. Of second-hand baggy sweaters and used tennis shoes. I dreamt of silent snowfall and of deafening summer thunderstorms. I dreamt of cold and warm air colliding in the upper atmosphere. Of autumn and carving out the slippery insides of jack o’lanterns. Of pulling weeds and growing things. I dreamt of two incandescent bodies, one mine, after sex. I dreamt of street lights, and skeleton bones, and copper cups. I dreamt of cold river water and sharp river stones on the soles of my feet.
All the while a sense of urgency grew inside my stomach, pressing at me from the inside.
Why didn’t they pump my stomach?
I could feel my mistake growing at the back of my brain like a warm blanket pulled over my body. Sleep. Stay. Stay. I can see my cat now, stretching her way up my legs and midsection. Purring onto my chest and then collapsing into a sleepy heap of nighttime fur. Her gray body and white chin pressed to my face. I hadn’t seen her since I buried her under the lilac bush. I dreamt of lilacs, of pine trees, of sunflowers and of pinwheels spinning in the sun.
And then I woke up to a terrible pain in my head. I had an IV in my arm and oxygen pumping into my nose. I was wearing a hospital gown and no longer the pants I had ruined.
Everything was quiet and clear.
And all I could think of was my old cat, sleeping bony and ancient under that lilac tree. Some day we’d be fossils together, but for now, I just pulled on the restraints at my wrists and sighed quietly. I think about how she died, curled up under the window in our bathroom, and how my mother grabbed me by my shoulder to turn me away. I’ve been an Atheist since then, knowing now that the only things we see at death are the memories we made while living.
I want to dedicate this post to my cat, Peanut, who taught me about dying and about living. I want to thank her for saving me from myself.