End of the World by Skeeter Davis, on repeat. A bottle of whiskey, 1400 mg of Seroquel, a suicide note, and my collection of Sylvia Plath poems, opened to Lady Lazarus. Through tears of hopelessness and despair, I filled my dogs’ bowls with food, brushed my hair a bit, then sat down at the dining room table. I scooped up the handful of pills and stared at them long and hard. The music seemed to drone in the background of my mind.
I sat there and wept over the tiny white tablets, honestly contemplating, wondering if they would even do the job or send me into a quasi-coma.
I took a sip of whisky, shook it off, and put the tablets back in the bottle.
I think I scared myself. I really thought about it. I thought about the after effects…
I’m scared that I’ll need to be perpetually medicated in order to be happy. AH. I don’t know what I’m thinking.
I find solace with her. But please, God, please give me happy.