When I woke up I was half hanging off of the bed. On the floor directly below my face was a pool of wet vomit. I pulled myself back fully onto the bed and couldn’t remember what had happened at first, then it hit me when I saw the empty pill packets and the beer cans. I picked up the packets – two strips of 30mg codeine, one strip of tramadol, two of generic paracetamol and a half filled container of phenelzine. Two six packs of heineken – the little cans that look like tiny beer kegs – were empty and scattered near the bedside table.
The room was filled with my belongings in cardboard boxes, the curtains were drawn but it was obviously morning outside. I wiped the last of the sick away from my mouth on the duvet and sat on the edge of the bed and cried. I thought I’d taken enough to do the job but the final pathetic truth was I couldn’t even kill myself properly. I sobbed because I was still alive, punching the bed in terrified frustration I’d failed.
Looking at my watch – it was Monday morning, 6am – I found that I’d been unconscious since Saturday afternoon. I didn’t remember anything except popping out all the tablets quickly and washing them down with lots of beer. No final thoughts, no suicide note, and no cryptic text messages in the hope they’d be deciphered and I’d be found in a dramatic pose and saved. I had meant to die.
I got up, looked in the dim mirror and my two big blue eyes stared back like a strangers. I wiped off the tear tracks, robotically put on my shoes, and walked for the bus to work. Another day, a day I hadn’t intended to see but I’d see it anyway. More new terror, more doubt, and more self-loathing.
Maybe I’d hang myself when I got in.