"I mean, you haven't been thinking about, like, suicide or anything have you?" Todd asks as we talk about my depression and it takes me by surprise, his sudden insight into my psyche. His swift entrance into the dark place. Do I let him go there? Do I take him with me into that weird little world? Will he turn away in fear or disgust in the face of all that I really am?
There I envision myself laying in a field of wildflowers on a warm day, feeling the sun hot on my face for the last time. The blue sky hovers above me like a coffin lid. Birds chirp - a funeral hymn. It is all lovely the way a dying should be. I have a baggie full of blue pills in my left hand. It is hot with sweat because I have held it so tightly in my fist. They are sweet little harbingers of death, my escape. They are the jump over the wall. They are the tunnel away from feeling, terrible feeling. I take a pill out of the baggie. It is a pretty thing. Baby blue just like my last sky. Nothing is sacred anymore. And yet everything is.
Right before you die, I imagine the world suddenly looks changed, like an old friend you hadn't seen in years. You meet up, have a nostalgic moment. You remember when it mattered and it's glorious and you somehow make it so much better in your mind than it ever really was in actuality. Then the moment arrives when you have to admit that there is nothing left to be said. Your coffee is cold. Your mood is sour. There is nothing left to be done. That is the way it is when you die. Goodbye. The pills are hot. They bleed their blue on my fingers as I touch them. One by one. Not too slow. Not too fast. I find my rhythm. And then, sweetly, I die. It's like fading and twilight and in-between. Hazy brain. First you are laying in a field of wildflowers and then you are a field of wildflowers. That is my death. And it is forever. How do you like it?
"Ok...I've had some thoughts about killing myself lately. But, seriously, I'm not suicidal. There's a huge difference."
"Jesus, Gwen, if you're thinking about killing yourself then you are suicidal. Maybe you need to...go somewhere for a while. Like a loony bin or something."
"Jesus Christ, Todd, stop. Just stop..." I'm laughing at the discomfort of it all.
"What? Honestly, only seriously disturbed people think about that shit....people fucked in the head."
"Well then I'm fucked in the head. Your wife is fucking fucked in the fucking head."
I want him to punch me in the face. Or spit and curse at me. I want him to look at me with disgust and then turn away and hate me forever for saying the bad thing that nobody wants to ever hear. Because that's what it is: The Bad Thing. It is dark and it's all I know right now. It is all I can think about. I am, like, fucking obsessed with these scenarios. I can't help it. There is a loop in my brain. The end of me.
And it's selfish. God, it's fucking selfish. I am a despicable person to harbor these ideas, these morbid fantasies. I deserve to have the shit kicked out of me. I deserve to be called vicious names. I deserve to be laughed at until I cry. I deserve to be locked in a room and starved until my stomach bloats and my lips crack and my heart gives out. I deserve to have some sense shaken into me. I deserve to be told a monstrous lie. I deserve to be destitute and alone. I deserve any nastiness Todd is capable of sending my way. I expect it. I set up the blows and eagerly wait for them to fall.
But then something else happens.
"Please don't do that. I love you. Please don't ever do that." And he hugs me very tight. "I'm here for you no matter what. If you're sick, we'll deal with it. We'll make you better."
I know I don't deserve that love. I've done nothing to earn it. I've attempted to destroy it with my twisted thoughts and my raw, unravelling emotions. And yet...I have it. Unconditional, undeniable. Why can't I just be happy? Why can't I just be grateful for the beautiful life I've been handed, this beautiful man, this precious child? Something is awry in my cognition. Something is broken in here.
As we sit down to watch TV together, Todd jokes about his crazy wife. We laugh about the prospect of committing me. It is funny, too, when you really stop to think about it. All we've been through already. This is just a "drop of water in an endless sea."
I need to work out my thoughts on death. I think my obsession may have a lot to do with my fear of it, perhaps a deep-seated wish to control it. I want death to be my bitch, not my master. And what's weird is that this is exactly what I did with food years ago. I was so afraid of it, this innocent substance. I was so fearful of its mystical powers, its hidden agendas, how it could hurt me in a thousand ways. The only way I could quell my fears was to control the food, to become its master. And then it happened that the food started to control me, and I coudn't get out from under its terrible yoke. I hate food. I hate death. I hate me.
But somebody doesn't hate me. He is sleeping peacefully. I love to listen to his soft breathing in the long sleepless nights. I don't deserve an ounce of his love. But I have it anyway. I'm going to enjoy the moment. Fold into it the way I used to do back when I wasn't made wrong from top to bottom, when I wasn't all twisted up inside.
God, let me have it. Please let me have it.
2 hours ago