Good decisions are harder to remember than the bad ones. Bad decisions not made are impossible to forget. Good decisions not made just aren’t there…
Talked back from the abyss.
I remember sitting on my sectional couch that my buddy gave me before he moved out of eastern North Carolina, looking at three bottles of pills. One was full of Oxycodone that I’d gotten the last time I had kidney stones. The other was Zolpidem, sleeping pills I’d gotten because I couldn’t sleep. The last was, Budeprion, some anti-depressants I had because, well, I was depressed.
Work sucked at that moment. I’d gone through some issues with a story I didn’t want to write. About a kid who died.
Things just seemed hopeless. And sitting in my apartment, by myself, every, single night didn’t help matters. All I seemed to do was cry. Think about how crappy things were. No girl. No money. A job I hated. Yep, this was where I wanted to be at 37 years old.
And those bottles all had what I thought was the answer.
Death.
I wasn’t very lucky at that point in my life. Well, that’s not entirely true, but it’s the way I felt. My friends who were local, of which I could count on one hand at that time, didn’t seem to see anything wrong with me. Or if they did, didn’t bother to say anything.
I clung to opportunities to go and hang out with anyone. Usually, ending up in a chicken wing joint or just on a barstool. Not exactly theraputic, but it helped. Anything did, really.
But the abyss kept getting closer and closer.
I don’t know what exactly pushed me to the edge. But, there I was sitting in front of three bottles of pills, wondering if the combination would be enough to kill me. If it would put me to sleep and not hurt.
I had no clue.
But I think I was about to find out. I curled up in a ball, crying. I don’t know how long I was there doing it. I grabbed the bottles and opened them up. Pouring their contents onto my footlocker/coffee table. The one with scribbles on it from a three-year-old that touched my heart and made me live for a little while again.
That kid was gone. At least from my life.
After getting the crying done. I stared some more at those pills. All white and awful.
I grabbed my cell phone. Looking at the numbers in it. Wondering who would even answer the phone if I dialed them.
I called my mom. Saying to myself…if she doesn’t answer, it’s a sign.
She answered on the third ring.
I broke down. Completely. Utterly. I told her how much pain I was in. How little I felt and how much I felt. She had no real words for me. She never does. But she listened. And she cried. I felt horrible. She was at work. But she put off everything to just listen.
And that’s all I needed. After a long time of a lot of words and a lot of crying. I hung up.
I put the pills back in their bottles. I wiped my face, grabbed my keys, and went to work. Just like I always did.
That’s the day my mom saved my life. She’s one of two people to do that. Maybe I’ll write about the other time and other person some other time.
Is life any better now than it was then? Nope. It’s pretty much the same. I don’t have any money. I have no friends where I live and I’m single as single can be. Also, every day begins with a ritualistic listening of Rick James’ “Street Songs”. Why? Because I’m scared of what the day will bring if I don’t do it.
The highlights of my days are writing, now, however. So that’s an improvement.
I still have two of those bottles, as well. They both have two pills left in them, so don’t be scared for me. The Hillbilly Heroin went away a while ago. I used to take one every so often just to help me sleep. Or if I was in pain.
Now? I just want to go to sleep. And get up tomorrow and go to work.
The weekend is coming. I’ll probably do nothing but watch and observe and think. Maybe even read a bit. I’ll write something down too. Maybe it won't be forced? It’s what I do.
Better than the alternative.
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