Day Nine: Of Water, Wine and Sirens Song (part 3b)

****Note: This entry contains very intense mentions of suicide (non-graphic). Please read with caution if you are triggered by these subjects.
 

All three girls finish lunch and the older ones go to play while I clean up their baby sister, change her diaper, and get her ready for her nap. She looks up at me as I'm changing her and cracks a wide, single-toothed grin. The gravity of what I am actively planning to do hits me with her smile and I inhale sharply, give her chubby little feet a kiss, and whisper, "I am so sorry, mi osita. I love you..." as I snap her onesie closed and put her tiny pants back over her bottom. I scoop her up and she leans her small head against my chest with a little yawn. I feel her soft weight resting against me and the surge of emotion that fills me is almost more than I can bear. You can't do this to her. You can't do this. Don't do this. Reach out to someone, anyone. I should call Gray. No. He will just drop everything and come rushing home and there's nothing he can do. His employer wouldn't understand. He needs to keep his job. No. Pendragon. Call him. No, I can't. The crisis line? Oh hell no. Email Chez? No. He has more to worry about than me. Plus, you barely know him. There is no one...

I take GB upstairs to put her down for her usual midday nap and tuck her in with her blankie and quilt. I stroke her still soft, baby fine hair as she turns over to get more comfortable. I stand at her crib for what seems like forever, watching her even breathing and trying to soak in the curve of her cheek, the way her petite fingers are clutching the edge of her blanket, and the heart shape of her slightly open little mouth. She is perfection and I am about to mar that with this act. My heart wrenches, I take several deep breaths, and with a final stroke of my hand across her sleepy face and a whispered declaration of love, I leave her to return to the living room. 

M2 has switched on the Wii to play games and AB has disappeared into her bedroom. I settle myself into the chair with another diet soda and my laptop and pull up the support website again. As I do, AB comes back downstairs, crayons and a colouring book in hand and settles herself at the coffee table to colour. As I sit there, I watch the both of them with despair clouded vision and my heart twists to see them so happy, carefree, and unaware of the plans in my head. They will be better off without you. You are so completely checked out and sad. It is not only pulling you down, but damaging to them. Without you here, Gray will be able to remarry and find someone who is healthy and not broken, who can be the mother that they deserve and that they need. Yes, they will be sad and grieve, but they're young. They'll move on and be happier. Gray will be happier with someone who can be the wife and helpmate he deserves. The empty ache within me grows dull with each passing thought and when I finally look at my computer again, I am numb but resolute in my decision.

I decide to open the chat at the support website again and as I enter the chat, I see some familiar chat buddies. One of the moderators, an older man who I've gotten to know a bit, greets me and asks how I am. I pause before answering, unable to formulate words. Finally, I type the words, "I am....numb." He asks me what I mean and I pause again, my mind fumbling to come up with the words to express what it is that I have decided to do. Instead, what spills forth onto the screen is, "I can't do this anymore. I just can't." Almost at once, several of the people in the chat room offer virtual hugs and assurances that they understand how I am feeling. Some even confess to feeling that way themselves. I am not comforted by their hugs or commiseration. I feel myself withdrawing deeper into myself even as I sit there. I glance up at my girls, who are both still happily playing with the Wii and colouring. I look back at the computer. 

I haven't responded to any of these comments that have been made to me and suddenly a pop-up window appears on top of the main chat window. It is my moderator friend. 

"Talk to me."

My fingers rest on the home keys and I start to type, then hit the backspace key and delete it. I pause, thinking. I am unsure of what to say and, I realize, I am unsure of how to tell my friend goodbye. He must sense from my silence that I am in a bad place because I look on the screen again and see,

"You sound like you're hurting a lot."

I automatically type, "I am. This hurts so bad."

Slowly, over the course of several minutes, he manages to get me talking about what I am feeling and, eventually, what I am planning. I would fear that he would stop me, but he cannot. He is powerless from where he is and this support website is anonymous. No one knows who anyone really is offline. The only help here is in trying to talk about things. There will be no calls to 911 or knocks at my door, no calls to Gray behind my back, no one able to do anything about it. Of course, my moderator friend does his level best to convince me. He even draws me into the special chat room reserved for talking about these difficult things in a group setting and enlists the help of others. We all talk for what feels like hours, but I am unmoved in my decision. I know it will hurt those I love. I know it may forever change lives. I know these things, but the darkness has so penetrated every piece of me that I am already dead as I sit in the rocking chair, laptop on my lap, talking to these strangers through the ether of the internet.

I look up from the screen and I am utterly alone. The house is completely quiet. I do not see children or toys or crayons or television or furniture. I am barely cognizant of the laptop in my lap and my own breathing. It's time. Kitchen, garage, bedroom. Close the door. Swallow the pills with the bottle of vodka. Slit your wrists for good measure. Lay down and slip away. No more pain. No more. I look down at the screen again and type: "Please forgive me. Tell the others I said goodbye. Thank you for everything, for trying. I can't do this anymore. I am done." With that last message sent, I close the laptop and sit for a moment in the chair. Kitchen, garage, bedroom. Yes. Yes, it is time. The decision finalized, I gently place the laptop on the low shelf beneath the end table and then lean forward to get out of the chair, intent on the kitchen as my next destination.

(Click here for the final part of this entry in part 3c.)