Morphing into Something Else

I know this is going to sound wrong even before I say it and yet, I'm still going to say it. I've had a lot of different men in and out of my life. Each one falls into a category of sorts... There's something about each particular man that I associate with something else. Allen was a kind bud man. We smoked a lot of weed with a lot of crazy names and we had so much fun together (except that day that we were fighting and I went to a Broncos game - my first professional football game - and I was miserable the entire time because he was mean to me). I still miss him. Allen meant blunts and conversation and endless laughter. Then there was Roy...Mr. Pure. He wouldn't even drink soda because it was bad for you. But that big ole Caribbean boy would take me into little Jamaica and find weed for me because that's what I wanted - even though he'd never smoked once. Which seems sort of a sin to me because he was FROM Trinidad! Lord, I was in love with that man. He meant Jamaican beef patties, curry goat, ginger beer, and endless nights of mind blowing sex. We were in our early twenties and he accused me of trying to kill him with sex. The Soca, Dancehall music and dancing....getting busted at the golf course with my bra on the console and his pants undone and the cops asking HIM if he was being raped (windows completely steamed over). His mama asking me to type an email for her and saying "God don't like ugly" and me asking her what the hell that meant. Buying a Jamaican cookbook and learning his native dishes. Roy was my island boy. He was also the first man to hit me, throw me down a flight of stairs, threaten to stab me and then, ultimately, pull a gun on me as I drove away into the Philadelphia night afraid for my life.

Then there was the Muslim whose name I can't recall....he thought just because his dick was huge I should have had eight orgasms in the space of two minutes. When I laughed in his face he put a gun into mine. Wow, was I dating the wrong men! I dumped him. He kept threatening to kill me. I moved.

Texas brought a new breed. Scofield. Like the Bible. Never even heard of the Scofield Bible until my mama told me. He cheated on me with his ex-wife. I ate a handful of xanax. Lived. Can't kill myself no matter how many times I try.

Which reminds me of one of my last attempts - not the last, just one of the last. I know, you shouldn't talk about suicide so casually. And yes, I know how devastating it is to those left behind but I get it. My cousin killed himself. My friend Chad killed himself. I have a tattoo on the back of my neck because of Chad. A week before his suicide he got a tattoo on his arm. Wouldn't tell anyone what it meant. The night before his death we were talking about him moving in with me. The next day I got the call. Within a week six of us went to the same tattoo parlor, got the same tattoo artist, got the same tattoo. Thom (who has it) touched mine several weeks ago. Just rubbed his fingers over it and didn't say anything and I was flooded with sorrow. We both were. It's something we have that no one, not even his wife, will ever understand. I felt sorry for him in a way that he married a woman that couldn't grasp the significance of what we went through. But who could? Who could unless you were there? Unless you read his suicide note? Found him. Went to his funeral. Lived through that nightmare.

So I know what it does to everyone left behind. But when you are there, you are there. So I've never been mad at my cousin or at Chad. I could never be mad at them. Because sometimes you feel like it's your only choice. And boy, did I try. I ended up in the ICU. They wanted me to sleep but how could I when someone was in the room every five minutes checking something or taking more blood? I was on live video feed the entire time. I had so many tubes and monitors I didn't know if I could move. I'd tried many times before but this time I wasn't crying for help, I was trying to die. Why couldn't they just let me?

Today, I'm glad they didn't let me. I'm glad they swooped me up and took me to the hospital and made me drink that vile concoction. I'm glad they put me in ICU and watched me every minute and forced me to stay on psych for days. At the time I just wanted out and my psychologist came to visit me and said "Sarah, do you realize you almost killed yourself? You are here because you almost succeeded." I said I didn't care. Let me out. Let me out. Please, let me out.

Now, I can't imagine feeling so sad. Don't misunderstand, I get very, very sad. I'm bipolar. I have borderline personality disorder. My lows are devastating. I just don't want to die anymore. I want to see what happens next. I just survived something epic. I came out on the other side and I didn't die. Oh, I might have tried once or twice and the one thing I will thank Mark for is for not letting me. Some part of him must have loved something about me. I just don't want to die anymore. I want to go away sometimes. I want to escape lots. I want to be wrapped up in something until the pain at least ebbs. But I don't want to die anymore. That's something.

I'm morphing into something else. I'm excited and terrified. What will happen next?