Tuesday Slay Day, Inaugural Edition: How I Continued To Slay When Suicide Seemed Like A Great Idea
If you ever need to find me on a weekday morning around 7:46, a good bet is that I’m somewhere near the Las Vegas airport at a standstill in my car after trying an alternative route, thinking I could beat the amorphous construction that forms around me every morning like a cunning amoeba.
It’s okay though, because thanks to the abundance of the internet there are podcasts, so many podcasts. But usually when I get to that ten minute mark of almost being at the office but not quite there and I get a lump in my throat, I put on none other than Formation by Beyonce which I’ve written about on another website here in case you want to know how I feel about this prodigious piece of work. I will sit in my car, doing that blow/sip thing you do when your coffee is still a little too hot, but you need to look alive and sing (read: scream off key): “When he fuck me good I take his ass to Red Lobster” complete with the incantation of “I Slay” repeatedly.
It is an incantation.
I’ve been on a journey of self-development probably for my whole life but only really became super conscious of what I was up to until a few years ago. My move to Las Vegas put me in the position of having to make a very clear and conscious choice, which was:
Am I gonna slay or am I gonna stay?
And what I mean by that is am I going to take situations that I wasn’t pleased about and turn it out into full-blown owner of the situation? Or was I going to stay stuck playing the victim, giving into the profound sorrow of recent circumstances and the toxic resentment of others that were fading out of my rear view mirror?
The answer is it was dicey there for a while. I lost a baby a few weeks before moving here and had a huge fight with my husband the night before I moved to Vegas where we had planned on me being on my own for a few weeks setting up the house.
I would get up at one in the afternoon echoing like a lost voice through the new house in the suburbs, bouncing off of whatever surface would acknowledge my presence. My days were seemingly spent moving through a pool of jello, blurry and slow and hot and sticky. They would often end in the pool, me still and silent, flood lights illuminating the palm trees.
I called my mom drunk one afternoon, asking her to come out. I called lots of people drunk and made multiple conflicting plans to run away from the beige suburb that I was floating through. I re-texted and re-called and cancelled.
I put dishes away. It was monumental.
I put books on the shelves. A triumph of spirit.
My mom came and encouraged me to move, to just keep going.
People I hadn't heard from in years called out of the blue like bizarre angels, wanted to know how I was. I cried. They would text and make sure I responded.
There was a bottle of Oxycontin. From the doctor. For the pain. I wasn’t sure if it was for the physical, because when I took one of those babies the relentless fucking profound sorrow that had entered my soul as my baby violently retreated from my womb all of a sudden ceased to exist. Plus, my body didn’t hurt as much. One night I got drunk in my bedroom while my mom was upstairs asleep and twirled the bottle of Oxycontin between my hands.
I took one.
The calm that rushed through my body was like every blood cell had been wrapped in its favorite blanket. I continued to twirl it between my two hands and thought about the sweet, permanent sleep that was at my fingertips. The rattle of the pills, there were so many. The feel of the little orange cylinder. The calm setting in as the opiate coursed through my veins.
I started thinking about my mom upstairs. She and I had gone to TJ Maxx that day. We bought really pretty bright blue place mats and a complementary table cloth. It brightened up the dining nook. I thought about how every cell of her body is occupied by love for her children and all of a sudden the placemats represented this surge of light and the bottle rattling in my hands was a mechanism, that if used effectively, could extinguish hat light in this gentle, generous woman. I thought of all the people who called and texted, my bizarre angels who knew, just knew.
I got up from my mattress on the floor, the little orange cylinder in hand and quickly ran to the toilet before I could change my mind. I flushed those delicious little pills down and said goodbye.
This blog is not about suicide. It’s about living in purpose so that when difficult things happen in your life, or circumstances do their best to derail you, you can still keep designing a life that you love. We have the power to create and dictate. We have the power to stay in sadness or to get up and flush our shit down the toilet.
This blog is about beautiful things and what moves me into action. This blog is about desire, a desire so big that I will not let anything stop me. This blog is a declaration and a journey. This blog is about love: for my husband, my family, the feel of well-cut dress when I put it on, the way the sun makes shadows on the desert mountains near my house. This blog is my declaration to the world that I always, and will continue to, slay.
Love you, fam.