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Precise Abandonment

I can’t even move to my Parents house.

I messaged my Mother via Facebook to let her know I needed to talk to her today. I wouldn’t call too early. After 11:30a.m.

She responded, “Hi Sarah, okay.”

I actually called earlier due to my Schedule *(I had one Class to Teach today/No Show).

I let her know in advance (This is a must) and I called her.

I started to weep (big mistake) and told her what I have been saying for over two months now “I need to move back home.”

She became irate quickly and said

“I knew you wanted money yesterday when you called.”

I called yesterday to inform her about my 7 Year Old Cat and asking her how she was doing.

She was yelling at me about how they just paid my Rent (incorrect. She sent a Check for 1/3 of the Rent. And I NEVER asked her to send that. She offered).

I repeated “I’m not going to make it. My Utilties will be shut-off. I need heat. *Currently, on-top of my daily Chronic Health Problems and Disability, I’m very ill. I can’t even go pick up my two Prescriptions that I need.

I did not ask for money, but to return home. So, they wouldn’t have to send anything.

Without being direct, the implication was there.

I can’t move back.

Oh, but my Brother was able to before.

She told me she didn’t want to talk anymore (screaming) and to call the needed places tomorrow and message her with what I find out (If I can set up Payment Plans for my Gas Bill and Mobile Phone. I have to call Electric too. They charged me a Fee again. I already paid 4 Installments of Fees[this happens when your Ex-Husband annihilates your Credit] and I’m not paying again).

She hung up with incension.

Again, I get burned for something I didn’t do. *(My entire life, being apart of them).

Solution.

What I was singing last night in bed before my mind shut-off:

April 1997.

I counted 18 Pills, one by one. I was careful. Each pill laid out before me on my bed as I sat in a meticulously planned fashion swallowing each pill one my one until all eighteen had vanished from my striped comforter.

I opened my eyes, the Alarm Clock read 5:45a.m. The red numbers, blurred as I heard what I thought to be my Alarm Clock, but that’s impossible. I’m dead.

I got up, shut the fucking thing off. Everything was out of sight, my vision tripping me as I tried to put on Make-up then clothes for school. I was 17.

My Mother opened the door, witnessing my bizarre state of being and asked “are you on heroin?”

Heroin.

Not Marijuana or even Coke, but Heroin.

I said No. (Words did not make sense as I tried to perform my best “I’m ok”).

Then she called to my Father.

He stood in my teenage bedroom doorway and said “there’s something wrong with her, we have to take her to the E.R.”

Now, remember, I’ve been sick my entire life, Diagnosed with SCN two years prior, and taking Injections to stay alive. So, my Father’s assumption was that I was sick like I had been before.

They walked me to their Minivan, and rushed me to the closest E.R (about 30 minutes away in traffic).

My Father parks the Minivan and picks me up like a Princess and carries me into the E.R with panic. *That is the only time my Father ever carried me like that. Not even when I was a Child). But, thanks to my Anorexia-Nervosa, I only weighed 117 Pounds (at 5’7″ then) so, no problem I guess.

Not one single Doctor, Nurse, Technician knew I tried to kill myself. Nor did my Parents.

My Blood Sugar was 33. I was “Code-Blue.” The Sirens were going off as a light above the E.R bed was flashing.

I had to drink Orange Juice with added Sugar. Disgusting.

The E.R Doc. diagnosed me with Hypoglycemia. And that’s why my vision was blurred and the other symptoms I was experiencing (mental confusion, fatigue).

Nope.

18 Pills causes my Blood Sugar to drop. I was being poisoned. Should of had extensive Blood Work drawn, but Code-Blue and my SCN were on the front-line.

Not one whisper of Suicide.

Hilarious. I was also a “Cutter” but none were visible at that time. *I still had my clothes on in my E.R bed.

I spent the next 4 days as Outpatient to see how Hypoglycemic I truly was.

Well, Anorexia-Nervosa causes that too, but no one asked if I had eaten that week *(I only consumed about 3,000 Calories in 7 days for thirteen years. Some years worse than others).

That’s the Song I sang last night as my Cat Leonardo positioned himself next to me to stay warm.

That Song has three other Versions. 1999, 1999, 2010. *(Would have been March 30, 2016, but the Police arrived to find no one home. They were a day early).

So, I can’t return home, Pills and Nooses don’t work, and I no longer have access to firearms.

Too bad I’m Disabled. I wouldn’t have to contemplate how much pain I would feel when a freight train runs down over me.


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