Mid August 2013 Story - Short Story

I sat alone at the bottom of the canyon. No one even knew where I was. My list to this point was complete: I had seen a beautiful sunset to the east with towering thunderheads containing colors that couldn’t be named but that might have resembled pinks, blues and greys. I had prayed on a rock overlooking a small valley above a small stand of pines, a place I had been to many times, during which I had cried with gratitude as well as apologies and requests for forgiveness. In the pine stand was my tent, and it was here that I now sat in the growing dark of a late summer day. Having finished writing an entry in my journal, I sat in the opening facing the trunks of trees that were here before I was born and that would apparently be here longer than I; because in my left hand was a number of painkillers many, many times the prescribed dosage. In my right hand was my hydroflask, nearly full of water. My breathing began to labor. Was I really going to do this? There was no one to rescue me if I had second thoughts after the fact. At the same time, if I was going to go through with ending my life there was nothing else to do but pop the pills into my mouth and take a drink of the cool water. No need to stall any longer. 

But I did stall. I sent an apology to my last serious girlfriend, careful to leave absolutely no hints of my intentions. After that, I checked my watch and, deciding that my best friend (who lived three time zones away) would be fast asleep, I also texted him an apology along with some housekeeping items.   

Suddenly my phone rang, a blinking mute question in the almost-dark tent. It was another dear friend who, I found out later, just wanted to call and check in for “no reason”. He was just following a feeling that he should reach out. As the phone plead for me to answer I was reminded that two years before almost to the day I had been driving to the mountains with a loaded shotgun when a childhood friend called from out of the blue. I hadn’t spoken to her in years, but we had always considered ourselves soul mates. She wanted to see a concert by a pop rock band that had had many hits in our middle school years. They were playing in our home town and she happened to be there that night visiting her parents. I did not live far away but I politely declined and hung up. But it got me thinking. I called her back, went to the show and lived to fight another day.

But this time I did not answer the phone. I didn’t care if it were some kind of divine sign. When it stopped ringing, it took the last of the light in the tent with it.

The huge rocks behind me seemed to absorb the noise of the river, refine it and reflect it back with reverence. I sat listening to it and the crickets and watching the stars and then after taking a few deep breaths I popped the pills in my mouth and quickly drank them down. I felt a strange feeling of relief. It was done, or would be soon. I just didn’t want to get sick and die in my own vomit, nor did I want to simply destroy my liver while I lived with that condition. The plan was to continue taking the pills a little at a time throughout the night so it would kill me gradually and certainly.

Obviously that didn’t happen.  

Although I felt the familiar heavy blanket of the pills descend with an unfamiliar frightening force throughout the night I awoke several times with the same resolve. Each time I took a few more pills equal to a new prescription dose or two. Finally my limbs succumbed to the earth and my eyelids to sleep, and wouldn’t lift again.

I awoke with the sun in the morning, incredulous. My first thought: Are you fucking kidding me? I can’t even kill myself right? Now I’m going to be one of those “attempted suicide” people that just want attention. Shit! But in reality, deep down I was relieved. It was a beautiful Saturday morning, the sun was shining and I was camped, albeit illegally, in the trees in one of my favorite places on earth. At least my family wouldn’t curse my name with as much venom now, at least not yet. I was surprised to be relieved to be alive, but I was. I held the thought in my mind, a strange smooth stone that I had forgotten that I had once treasured. Snaking attention into the depths of my body I could feel no pain in my stomach or liver or kidneys. Maybe I was supposed to live after all. Maybe some divine help would be forthcoming in the areas that had caused me so much distress? That was a little too much to hope for but I resolved to get up, pack up and hike out of the canyon anyway. I was alive today, anyway. But in attempting this, I promptly collapsed. My body would not hold my weight. Not once in my life had my body failed me in this way. New fears came to me: what if I had done irreparable damage to my body after all? With these thoughts I vomited and then lay on my back for a while, the trees spinning back and forth as if chastising me for devaluing life to the extent I had. I had literally tried to end my life. I’d had no doubt that the dosage I had taken would do the trick, no doubt at all. Yet here I was, not only alive, but glad to be alive, aside from the vomiting which I had always hated. I had a few more pills in the bottle that I could have taken, but the thought never occurred to me to do so. This really seemed to be a sign of some kind: the bottle had been about ¾ full and now it was nearly empty. I lay on the ground considering this, puking more and trying to keep it out of my face, again hoping it would stop. The thought crossed my mind that I might be dying, but it didn’t seem likely if my body was trying to reject the poison now after taking it all night.  

I tried to stand a few more times to no avail. Eventually I gave up and just crawled very slowly on my knees as I packed my backpack, bag and tent. An hour later I tentatively stood again, staying vertical this time. Carefully I reached down and picked up my backpack, almost sneakily slowly moving it to my back. I didn’t want to fall again with an additional 25 pounds of weight on my back. When I didn’t fall I started walking unsteadily and very slowly towards a trail that wound along a river, stopping to dry heave on occasion. I didn’t want to walk past the day hikers that were already frequently passing. I did not want to walk by any rangers that might ask about my backpack, either. I didn’t have the strength to talk to anyone. In order to avoid people to the greatest extent possible I would have to cross the slow moving river. I resolved to do this even though I was very dizzy. Though only thigh deep, it felt like a baptism. The pressure of the water on my body, the coolness, the fish and ducks nearby and other evidence of the celebration of life were all around me. What had I been missing? That was the question. Why had I wanted to leave this? Was it really that bad? I know I felt hopeless in some areas of my life but at least this morning I was able to compartmentalize again. I had failed in some areas to be sure, but certainly not all. And even with the failures there still may be purposes for me to be here. I was suddenly sure of it.  

Eventually I climbed out of the canyon on my shaky legs. I still couldn’t believe I was alive. What do they have prescriptions for if you can take that many pills and it doesn’t kill you? No matter: I got my keys that I had inexplicably stashed in a tree, started up my car and started driving home as if I had only been to the grocery store.   

The phone and email messages from my distant friend were sobering. He had read between my cryptic lines and was frantically trying to get in touch with another friend I had mentioned that would be able to pick up the car but was still hours away. I had messages from her as well. Oddly, even the old girlfriend I texted returned it with a phone call, something she had not done even once since our break. And that started things turning for me. We spoke for well over an hour. I told her what had happened and she took me in hand, assessing the damage and potential damage and giving me advice. We would talk again. I called my best friend and spoke to him, enduring his chastisement and answering his earnest questions as frankly as I could. Same with my friend that had called me the night before and a couple others that had to know where I had been. But I kept it to those few, and have to this day. Until now, anyway.

I know Eric and I saw his blog and I thought it would be good to share my story (NOTE: I wrote this an an anonymous entry in my blog and needed to write it in the third person in case a family member saw it. They don't need to know). What did I learn from this? I learned a few things, but the most important realizations did not come immediately. Before I could really learn much I had to determine to take care of myself. I hadn’t been doing that but I decided to do so. I don’t know why some people don’t need medication and I do, but goddammit, I do! So what? I swallowed my pride and pills from the psychiatrist that it took me a few weeks to get in to see (I guess I’m not the only one with problems). I take those pills every day and I am happy to do it. Another thing I did was I started asking questions about my lifestyle. The ex-girlfriend helped in that area. Although we never got close to getting back together and are again not in contact, her influence in those first days was valuable. Another thing I understand better now is that sleep is really, really critical to my health. I need at least seven hours per night or I begin to seriously see things from a skewed, hopeless perspective. If I don’t get seven hours, I had better get eight soon or I’m screwed. Look, I had heard all this before, but until I got to the point where I was literally going to take my life away from those that love me I wasn’t motivated to do too much about it. I was tough. I could handle little sleep, huge stress, a slightly dysfunctional and riotous endocrine system. Such bullshit. The fact is that I was going to take my life. But it’s not my life. I didn’t earn it. It was given to me on loan. The only certain thing about my death is that other people that count on me to be here would feel the void if I left. They may not be “close” to me, but they like knowing I am around, just like there are people in my life I would miss if they disappeared even though we haven’t spoken in years. It doesn’t matter. If they left it would be like a hole in the tail of a favorite shirt; I can tuck the shirt in and cover the hole, but every time I do I would remember the hole and it changes the way I can use the shirt. It may not ruin the shirt completely, but it’s less than before just for that missing space, no matter how small. So because of my experience, I take better care of myself than before. I stopped chasing a career that doesn’t serve me. I mentioned I went to the psychiatrist, and I also saw a counselor and will continue to do so. I’ve re-valued my meditation practice and am revisiting other practices I used to do when I was a happier, more content person. It’s working so far. 

I feel like I have been through a lot in my life, but I bet most people my age feel that way. I think it’s ok to consider myself high risk for depressive acts from here on out, much like an alcoholic in Alcoholics Anonymous considers herself a “recovering alcoholic” the rest of her life. So maybe it’s a greater sin for me to get six hours of sleep and miss a few days of meditation than a normal person. So what? If the practice keeps me here, keeps the shirt “whole” in a matter of speaking for those that love me, it’s worth it. Plus, I am happier when I do these things.

I haven’t been back to that place in the pines. I feel like I owe it an apology and I haven’t made that yet. But I am going to. I am going to reclaim that spot, make it holy again to me. I am doing the same with my life. 

Thank you for letting me share this.