An uneasy confession

Attempt #34

Last Thursday morning I made myself a cocktail consisting of vodka, tequila and coke which I chased with ten hydrocodone and an ambien. I set out all the prepared notes and instructions. I set my MP3 player to the playlist of all my favorite songs. I then laid in my bed and waited. Nothing happened.

Several hours later I greeted my mother when she got home and made small talk about her day after making us each a cup of coffee. It was during my third sip when I was rocked with a wave of nausea so severe it sent me sprinting for the bathroom; barely making it to the toilet in time before vomiting a little into the toilet. I told her I wasn’t feeling well and excused myself to bed for the evening.
The next day I received a text from mom asking for the whereabouts of the missing pills and I told her the truth. After I assured her she didn’t have to send someone out to the house and would be there when she got home; she had me call my stepfather to tell him what I had done. It went better than I expected. Then, I spent the longest day in isolation yet as I awaited the conversation I knew was soon to come.

Mom came home early Friday afternoon and the first thing she said upon seeing me was, 


“There’s a reason you got sick. It’s a sign from God that it’s not your time to go yet.”

I tried to assure her that not only had I not vomited enough to make an impact, but also my years of taking pills medicinally, recreationally as well as several similar attempts have given me a tolerance much greater than most. But we believe what we want.

Some of the topics covered in the ensuing conversation:


I broke a promise to her and she expressed her anger and disappointment.


She said she knows I just want to be loved and looking for it online was only proving detrimental, because it’s easy for women to feed me lines to rope me in before severing the ties and thus leaving me adrift.


The idea of me getting back on meds seemed stupid to me, since pills are my choice tool of self destruction they might as well prescribe me a loaded gun.


I don’t like myself much.


She thinks it’s selfish to want to leave everyone behind to pick up the pieces; while I maintained the selfish thing is to want someone to stick around when they’re suffering just to appease others.


It then just all dissolved to me crying my eyes out.

I still wasn’t feeling well from the abundance of opiates in my system and excused myself to bed before my stepdad got home. I woke up at ten to find a missed call from V and when I returned it we spoke for about a minute which was the most in about a week. I promptly passed out again.

I awoke at 5 am Saturday morning with a few select images from a particularly vivid and nasty dream seared into my brain; nightmares being a side effect of hydrocodone. I spent the next few hours hidden away in my room until my stepdad left for work, because I was still reticent to face him. After he left I came downstairs to smoke and have a cup of coffee with mom. She asked if I was feeling any better and I was honest. She said she needed to run some errands in a few hours and wanted me to go with her. I hid myself away again until it was time to go.

The first part of our drive was in relative silence until I mentioned how much I wished I had been able to go to school in California. She said she didn’t even know I had been accepted.

A side note: this is one of my biggest issues with people and my mother is particularly bad with this. I’ll tell them things about me and the information is rarely retained for more than a day. She should have known about what happened in regards to the school, but instead I had to tell the entire story to her for the fifth time. Also? I remember every personal story anyone has ever told me; I’m a sponge when it comes to pain and I’ve yet to find a way to successfully wring myself out.

She then told me about the opportunities she could have pursued a higher education had her father not hindered her. 

After we picked up my stepdad’s dry cleaning we swung over to the Hallmark store in order to pick up a card for my sister’s birthday. There’s a Hasting’s next to it and she suggested I go in and look around while she picked out her items.

Right inside the entrance was a table at which sat a guy about my age, a few copies of his book placed before him, but no lines or patrons even remotely interested. I wanted to approach him; to talk about his book, what roads he took to get published and maybe try to make a general connection with a fellow writer, but I didn’t have any money to purchase his book and the sight of him sitting alone with his words hit far too close to home that the most I could manage was a pained smile as I slinked past. 

I wandered the store aimlessly and could feel the anxiety build inside the deeper I got. I found and aisle filled with action figures and other types of memorabilia which I’d only previously seen pictures of online and felt a little better. Once I’d reached the end, however, the panic set in with a fury and I made my way to the exit as quickly as I could without making a scene and avoided eye contact. 

I met back up with mom next door and she asked if I’d found anything I might have wanted. I told her I appreciated the gesture, but I was fine. We made our purchases and went to the Dollar store, the last stop of our journey. This store greeted us with a display of assorted Valentine’s Day gifts and I pondered which was more depressing; a dollar store Valentine or none at all. After some shopping we came to a rack filled with gift cards and she asked if I would like one for iTunes, which I graciously accepted.

Back in the car I told her I was going to download the rest of the chapters to The Walking Dead game, because I was dying to see where the story went. This led to me telling her about the differences between the show and comic before a dissection of comic book adaptations on general. I know she wasn’t interested, but we both enjoyed a car ride in which I talked openly. 

It was a good moment and one on which I would like to end this story.