I killed myself once. Thought about it for years.
The only time it ever happened was after a night at the bar with friends.
I made it home somehow. I was sitting in the living room, watching Letterman.
Drunk and high already,
I went to the kitchen and grabbed a 2-litre of soda and a fifth of Whiskey.
I set them on the coffee table and went to the bathroom cabinet.
There were pain pills in there.
As David Letterman interviewed Madonna,
I downed vicodins with shots of whiskey and swigs of Shasta Cola…
probably 20 of them.
I had time to take four or five bong rips before I passed out,
alone, watching tv on the couch.
The thoughts in my head as consciousness passed…
where of the people who’d be crying at my funeral.
The projection of puke into my lap didn’t wake me.
It was the coughing and the lack of air that slapped the sleep out of me.
I just kept throwing up, all over myself,
all over the floor and the coffee table.
At one point, I’d fallen to the ground
only able to hold myself up on all fours.
I was puking my guts out onto a carpet that would never shed the stain.
I remember asking him to save me, my grandpa’s ghost.
I could feel his hand on my shoulder.
He waited until my stomach was empty, and all that was left
were the groans of my dry-heaves… he told me to lay on my side,
that the worst was over.
I slept for 30 straight hours, through phone calls and knocks on the door.
I slept in my own vomit, on my side,
dreaming about people who would have cried at my funeral.
He was right though, my grandpa’s ghost. When I woke up… the worst was over.
— leest1 —