This morning, I open my eyes to my new usual surroundings. My parents’ bed. Their house, not mine. Middle of buttfuck-nowhere. Oregon. Not Georgia. I roll over and eye the empty space beside me. Looks like my husband slept on the couch. I’m irritated. But relieved. Breathe.
I get up. Walk to the bathroom. Notice the closed bedroom door along the way. Use the toilet. Stare at the scale. Weigh. Sigh. Avoid the mirror.
I lay back down, looking at my mother’s Narnia book still occupying the night stand. I miss her. Why am I here? I sprawl across the mattress and wrap the warm comforter around my neck. My face buries into a pillow with a familiar scent, not my husband’s, but my mother’s. I feel guilt. Shame. I wish I was young again, when curling into my parents’ comfort was still socially acceptable.
Why am I here? Physically? I am here because I’ve demonstrated that I cannot either support myself or take care of myself. I’m here because I need supervision. What did I really expect to change? I wanted a new start, doesn’t everyone? Only this time, I’ve just given up before even starting. Really, what’s the point? I’m never going to have a life. My husband refuses to look for work. Our car is about to die. We have no money. I’m stuck in this fucking house that is not mine in the middle of fucking nowhere with my lazy husband that I can’t stand and three hyperactive animals that drive me fucking crazy. I’m afraid that one of these days I’m just going to lose it. I feel the anger building inside me. It bubbles, churns, burns me day-in and day-out, mostly at myself. Fat, stupid, ugly, fat, stupid, ugly, fat, stupid, ugly. I see the fear in my husband’s eyes, everything he’ll never say. Every time I raise my hand or pick up a knife, he winces. Why can’t you do anything right? The topic of my having a breakdown and killing him has actually come up jokingly in conversation. Fat, lazy, disgusting, fat, lazy, disgusting, fat, lazy, disgusting. How dare those thoughts even cross my mind, I’m sick, this is sick. What the fuck, seriously? I should take that shotgun sitting in the bedroom and stick it in my mouth. Why not just kill myself now before anything horrible happens? If I’m really that afraid of myself, it’s for the greater good. Close your eyes. Pull the trigger. At least I can be sure I won’t be locked up this time.
Does it hurt to die?