“What did you learn from this?”

My therapist talking. She thinks that there are lessons in everything. My answer?

“Next time, cut vertically, not horizontally. Also, white wine goes much better with sleeping pills than red.”

I’m planning on working this into a comedy routine. I think I have a future.

I’m supposed to be writing about my feelings. I made the mistake of telling her I’m a writer. I didn’t mention that most of what I write is kind of… dirty. Really dirty. That Fifty Shades of Grey book? Children’s pabulum. I write smut. Proud of it, too.

My feelings? Seriously? Am I in high school or something? By the way, I’m not allowed to have knives or even forks. Eating cake is seriously impossible. Maybe I’m just not supposed to have cake and that’s why the no forks, no knives rule? Fuck me.

I should mention how this all came about. It started with a bath, a bottle of wine, a handful of sleeping pills, and a razor blade. The wine was lovely. The bath divine. The pills easy to swallow. And the razor blade? Well, it wasn’t as painful as I’d imagined. After that it was just a matter of sitting back, relaxing, and closing my eyes, looking forward to the first peaceful sleep I’d had in over a decade. Sweet oblivion…

Didn’t work out the way I’d planned it. Come on, for fuck’s sake, can’t I get a break just once?

Woke up in the ER. Kind of a familiar feeling, actually. Then three days in the psych ward. I wish I could have stayed longer. I’d always wanted to be McMurphy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s nest; "Who's the head bull-goose loony around here, bitches?” Bitches wasn't actually used in the movie, but I'm adding a little personal color in case someone from Orange is the New Black is reading this and looking for new talent.

One good thing did come about. I get to take drugs. I am supposed to take drugs. I have to take drugs. Did I mention that I like drugs? And drugs like me.

My feelings, though, that’s the subject here. I have few regrets in life. In fact, I’ll name them all, since I’m on the subject.

One: Missing my ex’s head with the wine bottle. I’m still fairly confident that, had my aim been better, I’d have done some serious damage, perhaps fatal.

Two: Not going to see the Foo Fighters at the Show Box last year when I’d scored a pair of comps (that’s free tickets passed on by someone in, or with, the band, for those of you not in the loop).

Three: Calling the cops instead of sitting in my car and bleeding to death after being raped one summer not so long ago. It would have, in retrospect, been so much easier than attempting to deal with the aftermath for the past two and a half years.

And Four: Not succeeding in killing myself.

Really, that’s it. Simple, short, and to the point.

What I’m really trying to say here is that if it had been a fucking cry for help, I’d have told someone and given them the chance to talk me out of it. It wasn’t. I was merely fed up with the nightmares. I was so tired of dealing with the fall out, day after day, night after night, that yes, killing myself seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. 

So yeah, my feelings...

I am supposed to be sorry. I am supposed to regret trying to do something stupid like killing myself. I am supposed to make amends. That’s what I’m told. Sometimes I even buy into it. Mostly, I just sort of stare at things or contemplate the lint in my navel and try to eat salad with a spoon. My true feelings? I’d kill for a piece of cake right now.