It is suicide morning. The day I will die.
I cannot eat anything this morning, in order to keep my stomach clean, for death. It will absorb the drugs better this way.
I have done all the calculations. I’m a doctor.
I walk down the carpeted stairs from my bedroom, to the kitchen. I greet my mom, but she seems distracted. Good.
It is imperative she thinks everything is okay. I have to cut my drugs up so they can be absorbed by my stomach, but I can’t do it in the house. She could walk in on me. I can just picture her entering the door of my room, finding me with a pile of white pills on a cutting board, hacking away. This would kill the plan.
Besides, I want to be outside, alive, enjoying the air, for one last time. I make small talk with my mom in the kitchen, while she is preparing oatmeal. She’s always been so consistent with what she has for breakfast. And how she approaches life. Her life has turned out. She has stability. She walks over to the table and sits down with her oatmeal. When her face is downward, bringing a bite to her mouth, I grab a big knife from the knife set on the counter, and shove it in my backpack. I tell her I am going to the neighborhood outdoor pool to write in my diary.
I hop on my bike and ride to the pool. It is a crisp morning. Even though it’s August, there’s a chill in the air, like death is coming. Reminds me of lines from “Kathy’s Song”, by Simon and Garfunkel: “August, die she must. The autumn rains grow chilly and cold.” I always wondered about these lines. I was born in August. When I was little, I’d hear this record playing in our house, and feel a sting about August’s doom. Now I’m older, and right on cue.
The flesh on my thighs rises into goosebumps. I should have worn leggings, not shorts. How was I to know? It’s supposed to reach 86 degrees today, the perfect temperature for dehydrating my body as it lies in the sun, sick with poison. I’m going to take the pills outside, in the small, fenced-in backyard. The fence is tall, and the neighbors can’t see over. If I do it in the house, I might stink up the house, because people may not find me for days. My mom leaves for Portland today. She thinks I’m okay. She hopes I’m okay.
I take the three bottles of medicine out of my backpack, and put the cutting board next to them on the picnic table. I shroud the cutting board behind the backpack sitting on the table, and stage a diary next to me.
I seize the knife and begin chopping. The phenobarbital pills are the size of M&M’s, but with straight sides and a flat top and bottom. They are scored in half. I cut them in quarter’s. I can’t chance my body not absorbing every ounce of poison.
To my surprise, the halves and quarters go shooting across the picnic table, as I cut each one. Just like life — ridiculous. I become an expert at anticipating their little rocket-launches, and quarantine each particle. I create a pile on the right of “cut,” and a shrinking pile on the left of “whole.”
Once finished, I pour the cut pieces back into the original bottle. The Ambien and Xanax are small enough to be absorbed without cutting them.
With my backpack on, I hop back on the bike, and head home. I sort of wonder if my mom missed the cutting board, in the interim. How will I explain that? She’s one of those people who notices things. Practical things.
When I walk in the backdoor, the downstairs is empty. She’s probably upstairs, packing.
Once she emerges, I fake happy, and rush her out the door. She can tell something’s up, but not what’s up.
When she’s gone, I go out to the lawn chair in the backyard. It’s my last time, “everything.” My last time to sit in the sun. My last time to see the sky. To see the tree. I’m happy. I’m done. I have been planning this for some time.
I take an eager swig of tangerine-flavored vodka as I start swallowing the pills. They are harsh and bitter.
So was life this last year.
I go to sleep in the sun. It’s a blur. I don’t wake up.
But, I do. Six days later, I wake up in the ICU.
How the hell did this happen?
The story I hear is that a 17 year-old autistic boy who mows my parent’s lawn found me. He called his dad. His dad told him to call 911.
That was 6 years ago. I’m here.
Today I just felt like telling this story.
