If only I had a glass of water …

I had been crying in bed for almost a full hour when I realized that there was a bottle of Ambien next to me.

Shit. Only got four or five left. I don’t think that would do it. It would just make me sleep through L’s visit and then once I woke up, I’d have to that to feel shitty about too. Well, at least I don’t have to go upstairs for water.

Both of the outer edges of my pillow had become soaked from my tossing and turning from side to side, hoping to cry myself to sleep. I was tired enough, but the list-maker who lives in my head (I call her Lucy) wouldn’t shut up. I had passed the heaving portion of my breakdown and was at the point where the tears were just quietly leaking out of my eyes. Lucy started her virtual spreadsheet of all the people I know and how they might be affected.  I had a thought, “Hey Lucy! You know, there’s not enough Ambien up here, but there’s Vicodin downstairs and I’d have to get water anyway.”

“Susan, just hold on for a second.” Lucy was still working on the list and she had just called Guilt (another long-time resident inside my brain) to come in and help her. “Hey, help me organize this,” and she and Guilt begin to categorize each person who might be affected by losing me according to the degree of distress they thought each of them might go through. They had quite a system. Anyone who would have to deal with the corpse immediately got ranked as, “Pretty fucking affected,” and the rankings continued from there. As per usual, the concern for the feelings of others took precedence over mine and Lucy and Guilt decided that there was to be no suicide that evening. Relieved to just have something decided in my life, I finally drifted off to sleep.

The next morning I recalled the prior evening, freaked out and called Lucy.

Me: Holy Shit. Can you believe that?

Lucy: I KNOW! We haven’t done that since you were a teenager.

Me: Therapy time?

Lucy: Therapy time.

I called a new doctor that very day and will let you know how things go.