Or so I say (out loud, to the empty room), but I just keep on keeping on.
I couldn't sleep because lying there I started sniffling, tears trickled down the sides of my face and gathered in my ears. I was thinking about calling the Suicide Hotline, not because I was about to find the courage to end it, but because I am soo, soo lonely. Instead I took some Lorazepam and now I am sitting here, typing away.
Only moments from now I'll be sort of OK again. I'll snuggle down below the comforter, pet the cat and revel in the purring. Maybe I'll sleep all day tomorrow, spend the evening watching as many episodes of Deep Space Nine as I can tolerate, and then blub some more when the horrible emptiness of it all sinks back in.
I see no end to this. The numbness of the medication is taking hold. Maybe I'll be able to play some online poker or watch some Deep Space Nine or read Vellum without those stealthy tears sliding down my face, but I don't see an end to this. I am nothing in a soft, comfortable nothingness. When the Lorazepam wears off there will only be the nothingness.
I can say it: I don't want to die, but I think about it a lot.
Sometimes I have these fantastical dreams of being happy, capable and trusted, with friends I can call when I am down, but frankly, I don't see it ever coming to that. Instead I see myself slipping further and further down, finally joining the other drunks on the bench by the train station. I imagine wishing in lucid moment that I'd never learned to chemically block things out. Or that when you're drunk enough, or high enough, you can tolerate anything, even your own stink and other people's sneers.
I tell people I don't have dreams and never did, but that's not true. I used to believe that the future held a different me. Someone who had walked through fire and been forged stronger by the heat and beats of the hammer. That me doesn't exist anymore. I am too old to be promising, too old to be unusually bright for my age. I am sad and lonely now.
So yeah, I wish I had the strength to take my own life and be done with it. Like so many others in my position, I'd rather not suffer this humiliating, slow withering of every last ounce of confidence and hope and be reduced to a cowering wash-out.
My ex asked me how I am doing and I said OK. What else is there? He left, he may worry, but he doesn't really care, doesn't want the responsibility. I am bitter, but I miss relying on him, I miss feeling safe, I miss all the little ways he showed me he cared. And I hate how he simply left his wedding ring in the nightstand in what's become my house, but really is a mausoleum. Nothing's changed in here, as if one day he'll just walk back in the door, and everything will be OK.
But he won't, and it won't, and it never really was. I felt crushed and lonely and invisible even when he was here. There was just that sneaky hope that it'd get better if I could just become that better me. While I worked on that, I enjoyed the safety of him, knowing there was only so far I could fall. I'd be forced just by his nearness to keep my mind in check.