Chapter 3
Therapist: Do you ever think of suicide?
Me: That’s a weird question, considering I’ve never mentioned it. No, I’m too scared to do something like that.
Therapist: In a way, how you’re using drugs and drinking to anesthetize yourself – not to mention the risky sex – could be looked at as a slow form of suicide. Wouldn’t you agree?
Me: I’ve never thought of it that way.
I sit upright as if I’m a jack-in-the-box clicking upward. It takes several seconds to piece things together where I am. The sounds, the dark. I grab under the pillow, find my phone, bring it to my face, and see the bright light blankly blinking 10:00 PM. Fear flutters over me, Why am I this awake with such little sleep?
My heartbeat quickens and rings in my ears at the thought, is someone here? Is that what woke me? Before sleep, I felt an impermeability in the tent’s fortress-like walls; now, it’s nothing more than a veil where the lightest flick will pop it like a sudsy bubble. Unmoving, still as the tree I’m positioned under, I listen. To the natural sounds of crickets, frogs, night, and light movements, until they blend like tricks of the ear.
My mind wanders to the idea that someone saw me, waited for me, and knows I’m alone, helpless, and an easy target.
I envision the walk to my car. To escape. But it’s too long, too unprotected. I don’t move. My psyche is a torturous trap. In fear of falling from the ride to my death, I grip tighter. I’d run: into the brush behind my tent, through obstacles of branches and tree roots. Stumbling. Blood-curdling screams of “Help!” go unanswered. No one’s around, silly. You silly, silly girl. Nothing. For miles.
I am captive in my mind for an hour—or two? I lose track. My arms wrap around my knees, curling into the fetal position, I beg it to stop.
A game of peek-a-boo with stints of sleep follows, and each time I wake violently, my hope for the morning is repeatedly shattered. It’s when blackness shifts to a dark lavender shade I’m tempted to pack it in—to go. But I’m too scared, still. Instead, I bully myself back into a restless sleep.
At the slightest hint of daylight, there’s the relief that night has ended. But in its place are the consequences; my body has been a punching bag, beat up, heavy, devoid of emotion and any sense of connection. I make the short walk to the lakeshore, pull my pants down, and pee. As I crouch there, looking out over the land and water with sunken eyes into my skull, I want nothing more than to bury my head in my hands and cry.
Going On 40 
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