The Bloody Doors Off

It’s 2am. Still wired. I’ve taken my nightly assortment of meds, including the sleeping pill, because let’s face it, I can’t get to sleep without it. And no, I didn’t overdo it. Just the prescribed amount.

Yes, I have a plan.

Not that I’m going to do it. But when you’re a sullen teenager, sitting on the stairs next to the dressing room on the high school stage, you get to thinking. And 35 years later, it’s the easiest one.

Pills.

I have a full bottle of sleeping pills, a different prescription. Haven’t touched ’em. Don’t worry.

But that’s how I’d do it. I don’t like sharp objects — it took me long enough to agree to insulin because needles scare the shit out of me. And I don’t drive, and would have to pay for a hose at Canadian Tire, and that takes money that I don’t have. I lost a friend many years ago to the TTC, we don’t need a repeat performance. Not that I haven’t counted down in my head as the train pulled into the station.

I go to sleep. I don’t wake up.

Easy.

I’m not going to do it. I don’t want to put my family and friends through that pain. They don’t need to feel what I feel.

But it would be. Easy.

She’s snoring. And she’ll be here in the morning, and I’m going to have to somehow describe how I’m having a breakdown and it’s not a good idea to hang with me, or maybe I’ll wake and feel a zillion times better and things are good and we just forget how things ground to a complete halt and see if we can’t move forward and try again.

Someone needs to look after the kitties. If I go to H-Wing. And wear the loafers because that way they don’t have to take the laces out of the boots. See if someone can bring up my cpap machine and pajamas.

I’ve updated my list of medications to put in my wallet. Easier to hand over the information directly than try to remember it off the top of my head. I always forget something. Wellbutrin, a dash or prozac and a hit of abilify, don’t forget the insulin and metformin, the cholesterol pill, the pill that helps you fall asleep, the pills that keep you asleep most of the night. Thank god 90% of that is covered by OW. I’d be a complete loony tunes right now if I didn’t have that.

Oh right, I still have to file my 2015 taxes. Which I can’t afford to pay. Not that I’ve made a shit ton of money this year. Under $1,000. That’s how much my business brought in. I’m a dismal failure. I can’t land a contract to save my life.

(An aside: some people worry I reveal too much on Facebook; my posts are set to friends only so only they can see it. Potential employers won’t get any info on me.)

I don’t have anything else to say right now.

Maybe I’ll be back later.

47 hours.