Nine Grams

By the end of the first letter my eyes burned. I don't know if it was allergies or tears but either way I couldn't see. I said a lot of what I needed to say, maybe not all of it, but there are only so many ways you can say "I love you, I'm sorry" before it all turns to noise.

I assumed it was allergies and walked to the bathroom to find an antihistamine. In the mirror my face was swollen and my eyes were red and my hair was everywhere. Lines carved into the street dust on my face. Pills down my throat, into the stomach where it joined the others. Tried to not look into the mirror again. I'd seen enough.

A week ago I had been given a couple of bottles of Wellbutrin. It was my prescription, but I had lost my insurance some time ago, and with it, the medication. I knew I was spiraling without it. If I ever forgot, the people closest to me seemed to know when to remind me.

"Hey, it's not always like this."

"You'll be okay."

Etc. Etc.

Right.

So I started asking people if they had extra. If they could get extra. Just until my new insurance kicked in and I could get back on track. Some people thought I was joking, some told me not to, out of fear I'd get the wrong thing. Some took me seriously.

A week later I had more than enough. Somewhere around 18 grams total. Enough to last me a month or so. Maybe a bit longer if I lowered my dose.

For a week I was back on meds. Takes around ten days, in my experience to start to feel the weight lifted. Ten days is a long time.

And nine grams is all you need.

That's the safe bet dose. 600mg might give you a seizure, but nine grams was sure to get the job done. It would take a while, but it'd do the trick. I had brought them to the living room and poured them out onto the table. Counted out 29 of the 300mg tablets I had. What was left of the whole bottle. Then 2 of the 150mg tablets. Nine grams layed out in neat rows on the black glass table. Opened a calculator and checked my math. I was right. 29 and 2.

I stared at the rows and messaged a friend of mine, who for the last ten years had been repeatedly saving my life. I'd give it one more chance. Finish these letters. See how it goes.

"Are you free?" Send.

Took a row of the 300's. It'd be sometime before I felt them. They were "Extended Release" so once they began kicking in it'd be like gears shifting ever upward. Because of this I decided to stagger the rows. Maybe a row an hour. Don't give my body the chance to recover.

Layed back, weeping, choking. I figured I had ten or fifteen letters I'd have to write. I loved people, and they deserved more than one rambling generic note. They needed to know I loved them and why. They each needed to know it wasn't their fault. They each needed to know.

I began the first letter. 

I remember the first time I saw you... the world was different... I love you and will continue to love you long after this...

and so on.

That's when my eyes began to burn. I couldn't keep them open long enough to type a sentence, and I needed to say these things. I took a couple antihistamines, came back to the living room, and began to write again.

No one has been through more with me...  I know you would have been there... I owe all of these years to you... 

I wrote, in no particular order to the people who mattered most to me. I had guessed ten or fifteen, but the more I thought about it, the more I knew it was going to be closer to fifteen.

I let my bullshit get in the way of everything and I failed you entirely. I’m failing you again now...  I have nothing but respect, admiration, and pride for you... I am so unendingly proud of you. I am so fucking sorry. Please forgive me.

Finished the third, began the fourth, and suddenly I felt very little. Tired. Exhausted, really. The antihistamine had kicked in.

My friend still hadn't responded.

I messaged them again, now that I felt nothing. "New trick. Tell me to take an antihistamine and keep me busy for a half hour. It works."

A wave of shame and embarassment washed over me. Guilt and disgust. The selfishness of it. The cowardice. What was I going to do to these people I said I loved? How is this anything other than cruel?

I'm not sure even now if it was me thinking that or some innate daemon attempting to do whatever it needs to keep the blood flowing, but either way I sat and listened, staring at the remaining rows of Wellbutrin.

There was nothing now. No urge. No pain. Nothing. I picked them up, one by one, and put them back in the bottle. Closed it. Closed my laptop.

Wiped the tears from my face, stood, and walked to the bathroom. I knelt down, called myself a fucking moron, and stuffed my middle and ring fingers down my throat. I hated doing this part. I wretched and heaved and eventually it came up. Clear and orange and brown and green. Tried to move my hand quick enough. Didn't matter. Three more times, until I felt safe enough to assume they were mostly out. 

Stared at it in the bowl. The mess. Literal and figurative. I could count five partially ruined pills, or parts of pills. The rows had seven, except for one row of three. Two were missing in the slop. That means that in addition to my morning dose, and whatever had already dissipated, I had an extra 600mg in my system. 600 was enough on it's own to potentially cause seizures. I was over 1000. 

As far as I know, I didn't seize. I made dinner. I texted people I loved. I watched tv. I went to bed.

The next day I had an incredible headache.

(Note - This may be distressing, I'm sorry. I'm fine as ever. It isn't my first rodeo. I wrote this for the same reason  I write anything; it is my experience. However, if you are in a similar situation, do not do it. Please reach out. To anyone. Friends. Family. The fucking upstairs neighbor. Hell, reach out to me. It doesn't matter. Your brain is going to lie to you. It is going to trick you into thinking this is the move. It can be incredibly convincing, but it IS lying to you. I promise you that there are a thousand reasons to hang around, and every problem has a better solution than this. Please hang around. You are loved.)