i miss wanting to die

Every day, I wake up with enough energy to walk my dog, kiss my husband, and make scrambled eggs. My cat screams while I empty her wet food into her bowl. I write my morning pages and I respond to my friends on the east coast, who have been yapping in the group chat since 5 a.m. PST.

I take the medication for my brain and the medication for my body. I think about how much work it takes to stay alive. I think about dying, but the thought escapes as a notification lights my phone — Clara has sent a new picture of her baby, and I simply must reply with 12 crying emojis. I try to force myself to think about dying again, but it feels impossible to care about death while I am wondering what Clara’s baby’s favorite song will be, what will make her laugh, what photos of me and her mother I can show her in 15 years to prove that we were, yes, so hot.

I read poetry on the bus. I ride my bike to my favorite coffee shop and stop by the water to look at a river otter that frolics across the rocky beach. I call Gasem on my way home and stare at my ceiling after we hang up and I remember that we’ve been friends for 18 years and it doesn’t make any sense that I’m still alive to have loved someone longer than I have loved myself.

After work, Gerald comes home with a cold bottle of Dr. Pepper and says, “For you.” We gossip and kiss and catch up on our shows and accidentally play Baldur’s Gate 3 until 1 a.m.

In the shower, before bed — because it’s always in the shower, before bed — my body briefly time travels to that late-night shower at my grandmother’s house when I was fifteen, where the realization that I could end my life seared through my brain matter even hotter and faster than the water turned all the way to H.

Realizing that I could take my life was a form of absolution that made me feel like no matter what happened, I had an “out” if I needed one. There was always somewhere to go when my brain got too dark, even if that place was out of my body, out of this world. To choose to keep living — while knowing that option is still here — is the most tempting drug.

I could still do it, if I wanted to, I think, as I leave my fifteen-year-old self and return to my body, chasing it down the comfortable spiral of the certainty that comes with suicidal ideation.

Suicide is an open door in my house. I can always see through to the other side, and it would not be easy, but it wouldn’t be hard for me to walk right through. I could go any time I want, and sometimes, the breeze that tumbles through that open, wanting door feels so welcoming and tempting.

To choose not to leave this life isn’t a choice that is as easy as remembering how beautiful it feels to live. I have had to handcuff myself to this existence to keep myself from running. The only way out is through, but in this case, I don’t want to go through, be through, go out. I want to be here, with the sores around my wrists from pulling both away and into myself.

After my shower, I cuddle next to Gerald in bed, which is hard to do because Emma, our 50 pound dog, has taken my spot in my absence. I squeeze between the greatest loves of my life, our cat at our feet, and remind myself that there is always space for me. I go to sleep. I wake up again, and again, and again.

question for you:

i’ve been toying with the idea of adding an audio file of me reading my essays/posts to each publication. i find myself listening to them when others do it, and was interested to know if there’s interest here, too —

poem of the week:

The Lord is American by W. J. Lofton

song of the week:

it’s sad girl hours (let’s be honest, when isn’t it sad girl hours) and just breathe by Chelsea Cutler + Jeremy Zucker has me in the tightest of chokeholds.

Or, listen on qobuz, which i’ve been using more lately (and liking a lot!) as a Spotify alternative.

all the love, all the warmth, all the light,

housekeeping:

• i made a doc full of book recommendations for people who want to read more poetry but don’t know where to start!

• don’t forget to complete your one click today to support aid efforts in Palestine

• unfold: poetry + prose, is available on amazon, bookshop, indigo, b&n, or wherever you get books <3

• you can still buy paper girl from amazon, barnes & noble, indigo, or your local indie.

• i love you. and i see you. and i am so glad you're here.

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who i am: a writer, a lover, and a very Black + queer person. i love deeply, forget rarely, and spend most of my time cuddling with my dog, my cat, and my partner.

who i'm not: a therapist, mental health professional, or emergency service. i love hearing the stories of your experiences, but please don't send explicit or triggering details of your story without my prior consent.

if you're in crisis, please call 911 or use any of the following resources:

• National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 988

• National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)

• Crisis Text Line: Text HELP to 741741

• S.A.F.E. (Self Abuse Finally Ends): 1-800-DONT-CUT (366-8288)

• Eating Disorders Awareness and Prevention: 1-800-931-2237

• RAINN (Rape, Abuse, & Incest National Network): 1-800-656-4673