i Left Myself for Dead

Artist’s Hallucination of what this must’ve looked like

From the juiced-box and a testament to me…

For me, suicide was not a philosophical decision, it was an alcohological miscalculation.

Swallowing 8 prescription sleeping pills and more than 100 Nighttime Tylenol (i lied to every doctor who asked and told them i’d only taken around 25-30—fuck, i didn’t want to sound crazy) simply seemed like a good idea at the time.

The upside? Because you know there’s always an upside. The upside was that, in addition to the tatooed bruises, scrapes and cuts i don’t remember getting, i almost got to suffocate in my own vomit and die like Jimi Hendrix.

Earlier that evening i’d been to a grown up cocktail party with Miss Demeanor. You could tell it was a grown up party because it was in an artist’s apartment, all the furniture was white and there were tons of gay men there. Oh yeah and we drank only wine. Personally, i drank loads of it…exactly how much no one can be sure but my consumption was measured not in glasses but bottles.

i don’t remember getting home just like i don’t remember getting the idea to overdose. Knowing me as i do, i suspect the main reason erupted from a dread of going to work the next day with a hangover. Add to that some financial troubles that have been piling up like bills and peaked when i received an expulsion notice upon returning from my Christmas vacation.

Another big inducement was that i wanted to see what would happen next. Either i’d die or end up in a hospital and i was kinda curious to see which one it would be.

After the decision, i remember taking the pills from my nightstand and telling Miss D that i loved my kids, my parents, my sister, my ex and that i loved her. i insisted that she remember this message.

Next thing, i was sitting at the desk with a fistful of capsules in my sweaty hand and, even as drunk as i was, i knew that i was on the edge of something and i had to decide to look or to leap. i reprimanded myself for being a wuss, commanded myself to man up and swallowed the tablets. Then i went to the medicine cabinet for the second bottle of Nighttime Tylenol and emptied the contents of that one as well.

Hiding the various pill containers at the bottom of the trash, i commended myself on my foresight through double vision.

After that, my evening went downhill. i sat down at the computer, posted a message to this blog, then to another blog (“No one loved life as much as me”, or something of that ilk), and then i started posted posting to my 3rd blog and this is what came out:

Never meant for some one as beu(ètttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttyyyyhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhgggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggguuuuuuuuuuuuuuyuu s= asyymh

Knowing me as i do, i’m guessing this is a reference to Don McLean’s “Vincent”. (“And when no hope was left in sight on that starry, starry night, you took your life as lovers often do.”)

i woke up on my back in ICU with my wrists strapped to the bars of my hospital bed. Ironically, the biggest danger came not from the sleeping pills but the Tylenols. i quickly made my way out of the woods concerning the sedatives but Miss Demeanor, myself and the rest would have to wait another 24 hours to discover if i’d recover or die from liver failure. And i did. Just joshing. Here i am.

To conclude, allow me to reiterate what i stated at the beginning of this horrifically boring and sexless post. i did not want to kill myself because of any profound sadness or psychic surrender. i had not been walking around contemplating suicide days before the incident. i was feeling a little pressured by life, but i would not have done what i did if i hadn’t been drunk. Alcohillogical.

Stop Reading Here

A quick disclaimer. While i attempted to pen this post with a certain degree of levity, i do want to acknowledge very clearly that for those in my entourage, there was nothing at all even remotely amusing in all of this. This is especially true for Miss D and my 16-year old son who found me the next morning and had to call the EMTs. My son (and i would not have taken the pills if i’d remembered he was staying with us that night) refused to talk to me for 3 weeks after the event, while Miss D and i are still battling the ramifications.