I wouldn't call it a suicide attempt. I accomplished what I set out to do. I took my time. I was prepared, calm, and focused.
I got the mountain dew... check.
I got the vodka... check.
The towel... check.
The ice... check.
The shiny little friend... check.
The horrible re-make of the once great Aeon Flux... check.
Kids are sleeping, with no hint that their mother will be dead in the morning... check.
(In my brighter moments, I blame it on the film. As hot as Charlize Theron is, it's just not the same without the gaping hole in her abdomen.)
A part of me died that night. Somewhere between the local law enforcement criticizing me and the paramedics saying the wound was "superficial", I wanted to fight. I wanted to scream out "Is all that blood in the tub superficial?" It really was amazing. The way the blood sprayed out of my wrist, just like in the bad horror movies. They took me to the hospital and baby-sat me. I felt special. And annoyed. When the overworked nurse came in to give me a couple of stitches I cracked a smile. It was one more stitch than I was quoted earlier. Thought maybe she was trying to teach me a lesson. I told her how supernatural the cut on my wrist looked when she was working on it. I said, in my drunken slurred language, "It looks like an eye." And it did. A wee little black shiny eye right there in my wrist. I saw inside of myself (literaly) and the sadistic, cold-hearted piece of me stared right back.
(I giggled as I watched her sew me up with a look of disgust on her face.)
I was promptly shipped off to a local looney bin and then "involuntarily" committed for the weekend to a small hospital two hours away. I still didn't care about anything or anyone. All I really wanted to do was sleep and die. Eventually the pain in my back from the sub-standard mattress brought me back to reality. I was an intelligent, single mother of two, with a secure job and many people that gave a shit, even if I didn't. I realized that I was different, changed, when I began to visualize a better life. One where my girls and I get along, where my ex-husband is less of an asshole, and where I enjoy myself and appreciate just being alive.
Just over a year later, the dark part of me is back. I haven't really told anyone, except myself. She's taking over almost every night. I can hear her in my head all of the time. The music drowns her out, sometimes. Since I'm still partially sane, I contemplate in my down time, will I ever learn to live with her, or will I just have to kill her again?