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"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.
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