Want to hear a funny story?
‘A “funny” story, or a “sarcastic” story?’ my friend quickly retorted having been around my humour for a near decade now.
‘No, it’s a funny story, really,’ I pressed on, staring into the eye of the computer to mimic the effect of looking into her eyes, similar to when we sat across from each other at the cafe. ‘You’ll laugh your arse off.’ She agreed and settled into her chair, waiting for the show to begin.
2.00 found me lying on my back in bed, my ears being repeatedly pierced by the sounds of Facebook chat and the rantings of a friend. He was having a moment that extended into two hours. He needed someone to listen to him, someone to know that he felt something, anything, that he was alive and felt pain. And I obliged, without a reason of doubt. But after two hours, my eyes were beginning to ache, and my body was on the downward slope of a fortnight of insomnia.
2.30 found my lying on my back in bed, watching the 8.00 BBC Breakfast News show and making fun of the weather lady who was wearing a stupid purple dress. I was tired but couldn’t sleep and I was taking out on the woman in front of me; I knew it was wrong, but damn it, I wanted to sleep.
3.00 and I still couldn’t sleep. Afraid of the moments between sleep and still being awake, the prime moments were bad thoughts breed as quickly as viruses. My immune system was shot, the doctors didn’t know what to do, House M.D. was waiting until the end of the show to save me. This was the time where I tend to do stupid shit, like write to Netflix about the need of their ‘strong female’ category.
With the twitch of my fingers, I was dialing an 1-800 number.
I mean, yeah I had intrusive thoughts about just cutting my wrists, but I didn’t do it.
I mean, yeah I was contemplating all the pills that I had in my room QTY: 30 No refills – DR. AUTH REQUIRED
I just wanted a reason, you know, to live on. I wanted someone, anyone to tell me a reason to go on. I didn’t even cared if it were a lie as long as it was a believable lie.
Calling, calling, I was met was met with the shrill of a machine. I drew the phone from my ear, jabbing my finger on my dial pad’s one. For espanol press 2.
I sat up straighter, cleared my throat; this was it. I was going to get my answer.
But I didn’t get an overly joyous or sympathetic volunteer. I didn’t even get an obnoxious psychologist who thought she knew everything. I was met with the sounds of shitty electronic music.
I called the bloody fucking National Suicide Hotline and was put on fucking hold.
Three seconds, five, fifteen, twenty – the shifting melody of a dial pad someone, somewhere was paid to create.
I guess Tuesday’s in the early morning are their rush hour, but I never got to find out. I hung up and didn’t repeat. Getting up out of my bed, grabbing the pills in the dark, finding my film blade on my dresser – it would take too much energy.