Pills

I don’t want to live, but I’m fighting to survive.

In respite care, my new prescription sat on the bedside table. Like a bottle of vodka to an alcoholic, I could feel their tasteless bodies slide down my throat. The adrenaline of doing something wrong, but being closer to my ideal scenario. The deep sleep forever. Everything else on the table is peripheral. There are the unopened boxes, the foil pack, how long would it take to work? When could I sleep. Would anyone notice.

In a second of anguish, despite my desires, I grabbed the still unopened boxes and foil packs and handed them into the office. My paperwork had stated ‘self medicating,’ but I can’t trust myself anymore. Even though I’d probably end up with nothing more than a bad headache. I’m pretty immune to medication over doses.  Why taste the risk?

And there is the irony. 

I just spent a few happy hours with my family. I say ‘happy’ to sound normal. But really it was like watching them all through a window. (Don’t worry, I wasn’t, I haven’t completely lost it!!). I could hear them laugh, talk to them, but I felt out of my body. The connection has gone. It’s a defence mechanism I realise. I’m in flight or fright, and my body is fending off emotions and it’s complications. My guilt, my sense of failure, the love towards my family, the love they give me back. I simply can’t handle it. Although I wanted to feel only the good parts, it’s not possible. Feelings come with everything- the good and damn right painful.

We watched a movie and then I decided to leave. I was comfy, well fed, could easily have let the time pass blindly. But I’ve made a commitment to rest here. That also means not overdoing the stimuli. Not pushing until I end up crying on the floor. I’m exhausted. I need to sleep.

My hand hurts more than normal. It’s screaming at me to be rested.

So here I am, not wanting to live, but fighting to survive.

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