Trigger warning: Suicidal ideation.
She might have seen the signs in the months before.
His snarlyness. The odd sleeping hours. The overeating. The loss of interest in anything but the damn iPad. How everything else seemed to require a gargantuan effort. The seemingly blatant and secretive disruptions of her compulsion for organization. The knives stuck to their magnetic strip inside the cupboard door (one pointing downwards). A coffee cup hung “backwards” on its hook in defiance of the other dozen. His surly incommunicativeness. “Where are you going?” To a medical appointment. “What for?”
Doc says I need to see a psychologist. “What’s the matter?” I don’t really know.
“Well, snap out of it, will you? It’s no picnic around here” And “Get off those damn pills,
I don’t want to be around to see you pass out on the floor.” These words, like daggers to him, open a perfect furrow, and an unwelcome seed is sown. An unhealthy association develops between the figurative knife and the actual. After all, how can she know, or understand? She has only her fear to guide her, and knows not what else to do. If I tell her about the blackness, she will think it is her fault and will become more distraught, or she will view me as weak. They have been fighting more as of late, with few pleasant moments between them. She goes off to work, this time for the whole evening. Good, some time to myself. I’ll lay down for a bit. God, I have to get up and do something. This is no good. Too restless. The Doc asked me to write down how I feel at some particular moment. How about restless, anxious, sad, and worthless? How long has she been gone? God, it’s too lonely. Too lonely. I wish she was here. Why am I thinking about the silverware drawer?