I was kneeling on the carpeted ground with my face buried into my covers. I was telling myself that I wanted it. I was telling myself that it would pass. I was saying, it’s not so bad snap out of it. I was saying, you have things to do quit wasting your time crying. I was thinking about getting up and washing my face. I was thinking about spooning the dessert I’d bought myself into my mouth and going to sleep. But I was also thinking of pills. And not really wanting it at all.
I had a conversation with my mother in which she told me that those who kill themselves do so because they’re selfish. I told her, no, it’s not like that, you think about it because there’s no other way out. You don’t want to die. You just don’t want to feel like that anymore. She said, Everyone who kills themselves has a drinking problem. A drug problem. And besides, how would you know?
I bit my lip. Said, it’s not like that. That’s not true.
But not: I’m one of them I’m one of them I know because I want to leave too.