Finally, having decided to face the day ahead, I get up and stretch. This time I do ground myself. I’m still not grateful, but I start the motions towards normalcy. Maybe the meds are kicking in around now. Either way, by the time I push start on my coffee maker I’ve decided to give this world one more shot. You see, it’s as if I’m addicted to death – my death. One year ago my friends and family held an intervention and had me admitted to a mental health facility (or loony bin as I prefer to call it). I made promises and took steps toward recovery. Recovering from wanting to die. Each day I wake up struggling to see the point in going on. The same way a drug addict wakes with shivering withdrawals. In fact, I even get the shivers too.
By the time I start walking to the subway station, I’ve managed to hush my hatred for this world. It’s probably the pills soaking into my empty stomach. I’m always in too much of a rush to eat. When life is going well (as in OK) I remember to pack a breakfast for work. On better days I get to work and catering leaves out extra mini muffins. These are the upsides to my life.
I sit on the E train heading down to the World Trade Center. By now I’ve accepted that I have to live this life and go about my daily routine. I’m off to work, to earn money, to pay my bills, and keep a roof over my head. With an hour commute full of grumpy New Yorkers ahead of me, I put on my glasses and crack open a book. Cliche as it may sound, I prefer to travel to another world and escape the reality around me. I’m bitter that I’m a loyal person. After promising doctors, friends, and family that I’d give living a real shot, I almost regret it. Each day I begin mopey, angry, depressed, and frustrated. I force myself to get through the day. To feed my pets, go to work, and make my commute. I rather be anywhere but here – or dead.