“Sonya @ 100 words chose an interesting photograph by Ashim D’Silva for this week 28’s Three Line Tale.” For those of you not familiar with this weekly prompt, Sonya posts a picture and we have to write a 3 sentence story – beginning, middle, and end – based on it. My actual submission suggested that the items were retrieved by airport security from passengers and carry on luggage, but it is also a suitable metaphor, with 3 different lines for these past weeks.
My confession, besides the thoughts, 3 small healing cuts on my left wrist. As to the level of my mania, a large bruise on my right arm from slamming it into a wall. I see the phys. nurse on Tuesday. This is bad, bad like my first full-blown breakdown (I had smaller ones I didn’t realize were), as bad as late last year, early this year, as bad as it gets both depression and manic – shouldn’t say that, I don’t like tempting fate, so I’ll say “so far.” I’ve managed to keep the rage to a minim damage-wise inside me and outside world this time.
So, please don’t read this and say speed-dial a crisis line – we looked into hospitalization in late winter, and it just isn’t feasible. I stay with this medicating shrink and his nurses, because I like my therapist. Otherwise, I’d be out the door. She says to leave if I don’t get the right drugs or if they don’t listen, as they don’t, to what I say, the medication I want, etc.
And to make it worse, my ataxia came back on Wednesday – and going out the door is scary. My balance was never good, and poor posture and osteoporosis made it worse. The real problems began as the result of taking a particular medication in 2011/12 after my break-down.
But then, yesterday (Friday) I sat on the parish school steps next to a statue of St. Francis Assisi that once was a birdbath but no one but me seems to notice – during a severe, and I mean lightening hitting the church spire a few yards away then thunder that almost blew out my ear drums. Wasn’t my day, my time, I guess. I’m not sure I get to choose anyway. My mother always said you don’t pass until it’s your time. And when it is, there’s no bargaining.
This is my “end it all pile” in the corner of the back porch; deep, dark seductive depression has often whispered “It would be so easy; the pain would go away; no more crying til it hurts; non-one will miss worthless you and your valueless life; make up for the pain you cause others”
I stare at a knife, scissors, anything sharp, pick it up with quivering hands, roll up my sleeve, stretch out my arm steadying it on the counter or the table.
Then, a tiny, very quiet but very strong voice says, “Throw that sharp object on the pile; show depression they can’t win this time.”
PS: This is a metaphor for thinking about death/suicide, not attempts. While I have identical orange handled scissors, and 2 Swiss Army knives, I don’t have a back porch or a Viking axe.
I admit I’ve lined up my pills, stuffed my mouth, reached for the water – and spit the pills out. Closest I actually came was when I was around 15. So, the # of thoughts do not = the # of actual attempts. And, my “perfect suicide” requires travel.
There is more to all this, hence Confession #2.1 because I have a strange #2.2 to add at some point soon.