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.
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.