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Catherine got me thinking today. She’s good at that though. Last Monday I had a post I was ready to write. I wanted to do my word vomit thing and get it all – the nastiness, the disturbing, the shocking – out while it was fresh in my head. I had the sentences ready to go and was quickly brought back to reality by Alana. I’d been full of haste for days and under such a spell I was ready to write it down and get it out in the open. She forced me into stopping and thinking and reevaluating that very poor decision and now I’m struggling to remember whether or not I thanked her properly.

During my first two years of blogging I distinctly remember putting out my every thought no matter how mundane or minute it needed to be read. I wanted for it to be read. Was it for attention? An ego boost? Or just the pure joy of playing with words and seeing what I could do? I was 23 so it was most likely all of the above for as you know 23 year olds can be a bit selfish as they venture into adulthood. 23 is second to 13 with the Me, Me, ME. So put it out there I did with little regard to who and what I wrote about. In my eyes it was MY story to be told as I saw fit or at least that is how it was justified to the angry masses. Over time I learned to rein that in a bit but I still fall of that wagon and put the Me before anything else. I can be selfish, we all can be but hey, at least I admit it.

The story that started to write on Monday but quickly scrapped in light of hurt is the story of my life – going back to the Me. I’m hesitant to write the next sentence because it is the epitome of my selfishness but here goes: Last Friday I decided that instead of dealing with things and my own faults and the reaction to them, that I was done. I mean done, done. Death done. I can hardly type the words out now but since we’re here I might as well. I took all of my prescribed medication in one fell swoop. I chased it with a glass of Malbec. I then laid down and watched Tropic Thunder and fell asleep. Saturday morning I woke up. Pleasantly surprised I might add. But more surprised by my reaction to the entire thing and how incredibly detached I was from the fact that the evening before I had actually tried to commit suicide. The way I quickly jotted off two texts to apologize and that was the end of that. The way I was happy I had cleaned the day before because a stretcher could make its way to my bedroom with ease and that my cat had plenty of water and food to last him to Monday. Tuesday at the absolute latest. The calmness of it all is what frightened me the most.

Monday I went to my therapist and told her about it all and with ease and of course with my trademark flippant behavior towards a very serious situation. How easily I could have succumbed to a serious illness because sometimes I just can’t deal.

I don’t even know where I’m going with this and how I expected to end – this post, I mean. Everything else is fine or at least better. There are some lessons to be learned an extensive amount of therapy copays to deal, the way in which I hurt my friends and family but that will be for later. For now…it’s just getting the words out. See? Selfish.

Somewhat related: If you haven’t read this from Heather Armstrong you should. She says everything I want to say but, of course, better.