"This is what happens when you are not on the proper medication," said my therapist yesterday. She knows, she sees the frenzied look in my eyes and the way I talk with urgency and aggravated insight. "I know you want to die. Do you really think overdosing on pills was not a small attempt?"
"I was not trying to kill myself. I didn't want to feel what I was feeling, and what I was feeling was something I don't like to feel, so I decided not feeling was the best thing."
We had to start talking about my next visit with the psychiatrist, an appointment I have yet to make. The poison this time is lamictal, along with my Zoloft and Klonopin. The therapist suggested I give my mom all my meds and that she gives them to me in the proper doses at the proper time so I don't have access to potentially lethal combinations of chemicals. I concurred, because really, I don't want to die right now. It will be in a long time, and I don't know what I mean by long time.
I went hiking today in the snowy mountains, armed with my cell phone in case I should fall or get attacked by a bear or get scared, etc. I wandered off trail and climbed up rocks, climbed down rocks, rough and bitter and like sandpaper beneath my gloves. I got up to a peak and looked over, so far down below, where all the leafless trees lie in muddy snow. For a split second I wanted to jump--no, fly--and see what would happen. Probably I would die, but wouldn't it be a nice death? Doing something I love and then dying. That is ideal. That's how my great grandma died--in the bowling alley.
Imagine there's no heaven, it's easy if you try
No hell below us, above us only sky.