7:51a.m, I’m partially dehydrated from the 5 Corona Lights I binged on the night before as I watched an excellent
1 Season Series.
*When I use the word ‘Binge,’ I refer to the Caloric Intake of the empty energy beer brings.
As my body absorbed 24 ounces of Canadian Water, overly processed Lemonade, I sat on my tattered blue bath mat under a steam shower.
I closed my eyes, sprayed a few elegant moments of Lavender Oil, and let my recollection of what once was a morning ritual for me during a time of personal greatness.
My high school alarm clock rings in my university dorm room.
I wake up with a secret melancholy, but I’m ready to organize myself to be the distinguished student that I was becoming.
First, I make my bed. Tie-dye sheets and matching comforter with an extra Wolf pillow design for back support during homework sessions and decoration.
I complete my 10 minute session of 500 Crunches, Stretches, and Yoga.
I prepare my instant Cappuccino in my Microfridge, as I look at my closet.
No roommate to share space with.
I quietly make my way to the girl’s wing bathroom. I can only hear one other student, must be a 8:00a.m Class.
I wash my face thoroughly.
Looking at myself with disgust.
I turn on CNN, no volume, and put on my vice, Music.
Bands like Cold, Incubus, or Chevelle would be on my a.m rotation.
I plan my outfit carefully as I dress my face with make-up.
I turn everything off, grab my bookbag, and head for the elevators.
This is a process in itself.
I live on the 10th Floor, and there are 18 Floors in my Dorm (that is now sadly defunct).
I pass many faces I recognize, as I open myself to the World and shut down my depression.
(Anorexia Nervosa Relapse. I fell down to 120 pounds. I’m 68.5 Inches Tall. Do the BMI Math on your own).
I’m beginning to fall asleep as I hear my cat calling to me.
I sit up, noticing cob webs in the upper right corner of the exiting door.
I am angry at and with myself.
I spent so much time being perfect, even when no one was looking.
I am aware of the ED & Ritual thing, but I gave myself away for six semesters.
Maybe, this is why now, I live among sporadic disasters in my duplex.
The only ceremonies I practice today are stressing about my current Employment situation, Recycling, and taking care of my animals.
Exhausted from alcohol and no time, I am ready to go back to sleep.
(You should see my bed now.
Sheets are ripped, bed unmade, and dog hair pollution).
Just Maybe I was at my best then because I never drank during the week, I rarely ate, and I read over 1,000 pages of literature a week.
Discipline as a memory is quite harrowing.
August 25, 2003. My Dorm Room Door decorated for my Twenty-Third Birthday, and my last Birthday as an Undergrad.
He died from injuries he sustained while trying to hang himself. His death is still labeled as a Suicide. He was 27.
In less then 30 Days, It will be my
15th Anniversary of Surviving Suicide.
I wasn’t even aware there was a term, a Subculture of people like me.
I was 19.
I had tried Suicide before when I was 17, and my Father had to carry me into the E.R in his arms(that was the last time he held me like that).
The useless nurses and E.R Doctors thought I was just experiencing an SCN episode.
They never thought to test my
Liver Enzymes or Blood Samples for Drugs.
*I counted and swallowed 18 sleeping pills.
I was in and out of the Hospital for the next four days, missing school, but I survived Suicide.
Fast forward 1 year and four months.
This time, I would be successful.
No note. No phone call. No story.
Just consume an entire bottle of pills(preferably sleeping pills), and call it a night. Forever.
Secret plans changed.
My Nineteenth Birthday came and went.
Yes, I did devour a half of a prescription of something, but my love knocked down the bathroom door and performed the heimlich maneuver.
Pills pills everywhere.
I was not going to give up.
If I had to wake up to one more day, I would blow my head off(too bad there were no weapons in my parents house at that time).
My design was simple.
This time, my Suicide would be a Daylight Event.
A self portrait of Sylvia Plath’s Hands.
1.5 Months After My First Suicide Attempt.
I can never quite make it to sunset.
My body, dying pieces scattered from what little I could accomplish during my painful day.
I was actually supposed to go on a Date tonight.
Salsa Dancing and Mingling with other like minded hearts.
But, the Side Effects from my injection/Neupogen, my Fibromyalgia, my lack of sleep due to Tuesday night’s break-in, I’m left with so much exhaustion, I am literally filled with nothing.
What am I supposed to do?
Ask for someone to save me?
Excuse me, can you help this decaying body.
I’ll go to sleep with the pain of my life tucked away for tomorrow’s sunrise.
“I hated that the greatest enemy of my lifetime… was my own body.”
You told me my eyes bring you to your knees.
That’s from a photograph.
You’ve never met the real thing.
Boy, let me tell you, my soul will wake your intimacy and knock your heart out of beat.
We will dance. Fingers entangled as our hands press together.
Drums will fill the Trio Room with ancient sounds of our pasts.
Trumpets set ablaze the gin stained bar.
Everyone is watching.
It hurts to be us.
Too much passion for one life time.
Strangers will take our pictures for their personal advertising.
I will tell you, It’s not my first time.
This body love bizarre carries us to after midnight.
Your Spanish hands on my Hungarian hips.
Percussion pushing us close to become one.
It’s just Latin dancing we will tell them.
Later, you will ask me to take off my clothes.
I will say No.
You don’t bring me to ecstasy.
It’s just rhythm baby.
We will dance again next week.