Weeks ago the plan was hatched. I was the mastermind. But I was also the fooled. I don’t know how it began. If there was one point in time that had to start this, I would say it was the moment V said she would be away the week of March 12th for training, so would be unable to see me until the week following that. I would never confess to anyone that this was the case. It was my lack of ability to cope. It was the empty weeks at the beginning of this year when she was away for so long, and then again last month when she was away in training, never substituting another day in the same week to see me. Does she not know this is so important to me? Does she not know about the monsters in the dark that frighten me when she goes away? I didn’t want to face them anymore. I’d had enough.
I told people around me I was going away for business for the week. I told people at work I was taking a week off for vacation. No one asked me where.
It didn’t matter.
On Tuesday, March 13th, I woke early. I took all the medication I had been stock piling for months and months. The last thing I remembered was me sitting in the living room, telling myself I’d wait an hour, then head to bed. I never got there. I don’t remember putting on my shoes (I know I did because when I left the hospital, my shoes were in the paper bag along with my clothes). I don’t remember walking down the road towards the hospital. I don’t remember stumbling around the car park behind the mental health center. I don’t remember the worker who came out and saw me in trouble.
I just remember waking up in Intensive Care unable to speak because of the ventilator tube down my throat. That was Wednesday, maybe Thursday, I don’t know.
People came to see me. I remember vague faces. I remember the nurses. In my heart, I knew I’d failed. People would later tell me – for the first 24 hours, they weren’t sure I would pull through. The doctors thought that even if I did wake up, I could suffer some brain damage.
I’m awake and alive now. Is it such a shame?