Day 18 #powerrehab: An isolated incident.

I tried to think of ways to lie to you.

To maybe put a picture, a cardboard cut out here in my place because I didn’t want to come today.

Here is one:
I vacuumed my whole downstairs.  Clean floors are a personal passion, with three small children, a luxury.  I have not been able to vacuum in many months, but yesterday morning, felt surprisingly able and inspired.  So much so that I took a picture.

I thought maybe I could stop there and you would give me a gold star.  But since this has become something like group therapy, and many of you know better, you wouldn’t give the star.  You’d know I was cheating.

So here’s another one of the trail, where I walked three miles in the same time I walked those two with my sidekick, Pain, just two days before. 
In the moment I took this picture I knew I was too far, too fast, and I knew that my pleasure in that was a dangerous thing.

My children were checked into childwatch and I was sitting in the least painful chair at the Y, outside the Ashtanga yoga class pretending I was in it, my pens and notebook spread across my lap when I thought about killing myself.

The thought dropped in like a dead rat from the ceiling.  I was so unprepared, I poked it.  Never wise.

I spent the rest of the day feeling it crawl in my ears, swatting it from my face.  Death crawling all over me.

What are you doing here?  What have I done?  What have I left undone?

Stupid questions.  Death never tells the truth.

I always take my medicine in the dark.  I measure out my myriad tablets once a week into my pill box and dump each dose into my hand as I sit at my desk early morning and late night as I write.

It locks.

Last night, ready for the evil day to end, I reached for the box before the sun had fully set and saw that I had missed the Wednesday night dose.  Three chemicals that didn’t make it into my ultra-regulated system.

It’s probably not fair to blame ultradian cycling and suicidal ideation on a single (triple) missed dose, but what else?  The typical aftershocks of a major episode?  Isn’t this why I’m on six medications?

I could spend my morning going on about the futility of medication, my hatred of this disease, my hatred of myself, but I have twelve hours of parenting ahead of me and they do not accept cardboard cut outs either.

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