And I Hope to Forget

It's long, I know. But I wanted my first post to be read in its entirety, the way it was originally written. I'm open to any and all suggestions!

 

*****

 
               The nauseating feeling has completely taken over my body.  I feel it every time I swallow, move, or breathe.  They say that it’s normal after having your stomach pumped.  My shallow breaths are only stopped by the occasional hiccup from crying so hard.  My hands are shaking.  I know what the term “cold sweat” means now – my body feels like ice, but there are little droplets on my forehead and the hospital gown is sticking to my back.  How could I have done this again?  The memory flashes through my head before I can stop it.
               Racing up to my room, I close the door behind me.  I text him, wishing him a good night and sit on my bed, adorned with exactly a dozen pillows and a rainbow-spotted blanket.  My thoughts race at a thousand miles a minute: all the work I need to finish for tomorrow; him; the strict stone stare of my mother, disappointed by my latest report card; his voice; the meeting I’m expected to lead tomorrow about recovery – the irony; his touch.  My pills.  I hadn’t taken them in over a week, and it was beginning to show.  That little blue capsule is what keeps me going, and I knew I needed it.  Now.  I walk into my closet and find the tiny container filled with about two weeks worth of anti-depressants hidden in the pocket of a hoodie that smells of that first night with him that I refuse to forget.
               I still don’t know what possessed me to do it, but there I was, swallowing all fifteen-or-so pills all at once, justifying it to myself by saying I was making up for lost time.
               Tossing the empty container aside, it rolls to the edge of my mirror, perched precariously over the bundle of clothes that should have been washed a week ago. The scent of smoke intertwined with the heavyset odor of regret, I stare into the eyes of someone I don’t know.

Not before. Not now. Not yet.

Making my way over to the bathroom, I roll up my sleeves to splash water on my face and pretend the criss-cross of tangled red lines on my wrists don’t bother me.

No space.

I breathe in and out all I want

As much as I want

As deep as I want

And accept that I will never catch my breath.

 

Back in bed, I pull the itchy comforter up to my chin

And squeeze my eyes shut so hard I see technicolored stars.

Squeeze and squeeze

Release and squeeze

Squeeze and squeeze and

JEEZ

I’m tired.

 

I tell myself I’m going to sleep,

And then lie again.

Lie again,

And say I’m fine.

 
               The phone call to my latest counselor comes within 15 minutes.  Mouth dry and choking over my own words, I explain to him that my mom would kill me if she found out, but he advises me to tell her anyway.  He hasn’t known me long enough to understand that there’s more to it…that 7 short months before, I was making the dreaded 9-1-1 call no child should have to make while watching her mother collapse over the toilet, a bottle of prescription sleeping pills at her legs.  That 7 short months before, I watched her being loaded onto a stretcher into the back of an ambulance that I wasn’t allowed into.  That 7 short months before, I threw away my razors, vowing I would never be that person.
               But permanent liver and kidney failure and possible death aren’t worth it, he says.  Wake her up, and tell her, he says.
               So here I am, liquid charcoal lining the edges of my mouth from that vile fluid being drained into me to counteract the overdose.  I let everyone down.  Everybody is going to hate me.  He’s going to hate me.  I can’t believe I was so stupid.  The psychiatrist’s hushed whispers to my mom about the psych ward echo through my head. 

 

            So I do what I know.  I write.  Confined to four white walls with sterile sheets and the stench of ammonia filling my lungs, I think of him.  They refuse to let you use a pencil longer than your index finger, and God forbid the point is sharp enough to actually leave anything more than a faint trace of what you really want to say.  But I need to get my thoughts out onto paper.  Whirring right behind my eyes, they collide into each other until it’s almost impossible to discern one from another.  But with shaky hands, in a barely recognizable scrawl, I write.

 

They say “Trust in what is written.”

And you write what you trust.

What you know.

But what do you know?

 

You know yourself.

Or do you?

 

You think you know.

And you do.

You know the color of your skin. The curve of your chin.

You know the way your lungs expand.

The pineal, pituitary, endocrine gland.

The back of your hand.

But look down at your hand and think “when did that get there?”

And suddenly,

You don’t know.

You don’t know yourself.

So how are you supposed to know someone else if you don’t even know you?

 

The little things.

You realize.

You memorize.

His hand, the gland, how his lungs expand

When he wraps his lips around yours.

Doors open when he breathes your name into your mouth

Because you didn’t know how pretty – how beautiful – your name was

Until he whispered it onto your tongue

Tracing each syllable of your existence

To refresh

With each caress

Each embrace

Each space explored.

 

And you thirst for more.

You try to quench your lust by pulling him in

Skin to skin.

Sink your teeth into his bottom lip as he moans.

 

And you hunger for more.

You try to subside your yearning by breathing him in

Skin to skin.

Sink your teeth into his neck as he gasps.

 

Refusing to pull away,

You travel down.

And down.

And down further.

Feel him tense up as he hardens against your stomach.

 

You did this.

Your breath, and your kisses, and your refusal of being satisfied before you know that you have found every spot, any spot, where he hasn’t been touched before.

Or kissed. Or Licked. Or Bitten.

Where no one was before you.

And no one will be again.

 

But then the little things

You realized you’ve memorized

Are gone tomorrow.

And then you wonder.

 

Is someone else touching him there now?

Kissing. Licking. Biting.

Is he telling her the same shit he told me?

Is she there?

Where I was? Where I want to be? Where I belong.

 

I drop the pencil, and a nurse runs over.  She tries to yank the paper out of my hand, but I crush it into a ball and refuse to let it go.  Refuse to let him go.  Tears I haven’t even realized were streaming from my eyes force my body to shake uncontrollably.  She calls for a doctor, and with six strong hands holding me down as I emit a sound that’s barely human, they inject another cocktail of sedatives into my veins.  Pulsing through my body, I feel the concoction taking its course.  My heart rate slowing down, I understand now how inviting death can be.  How far someone will go to feel this…free.  Nothing else matters.  I stop fighting.  I close my eyes.  The page filled with scribbles of my thoughts slides out of my hand.  I take a tentative breath.  I let go.  And I hope to forget.