Rooting me on

I held my daughters lorazapam in my hands. Ten pills. I wonder if I took them all, would I ever wake up? I could mix them with the last of the vicodine I have left over from my back injury. No. I won't. Sometimes I have these random thoughts. I want to sleep. Sleep and sleep and sleep. There is sometimes too much time in the world. I don't know how to fill it, I don't want to be in it and I feel guilty for this when I know there are so many others out there in this great big world that have little or no time left on this earth and would give anything for another day.

Depression stinks.

It's almost taken my daughter three--no, four--times. Each time we've pulled her back from the brink. Now she walks that high ledge. One misstep and she's gone for good, but still she stays up there, The air is thin, so she doesn't move much, conserving her energy to slide one foot in front of the other, then stopping for long periods again. Looking down, never up. My son has raced at breakneck speed along that ledge, dancing on the edge of death again and again. Heroin will do that. Feeling so good you don't even know that you're dying until you do.

There is church today. I won't go. Again. I know that I should. Add another heavily weighted charm to the golden crown of guilt that I wear. There is a family birthday party today. I do not want to go. I should want to go. I should go. I won't. Another weighty guilt-charm. The burden is cumbersome and makes it even more difficult for me to move from my spot for another outing. Soon I will be unable to move at all, rooted in one spot like a tree, unable to move freely through this world. Safe in my room, in my kitchen, in my bathroom. Protected from prying, judgmental eyes and knowing looks.

There is a kind of death in that, as well as peace.

I glance at the bottle of pills and go back to bed.