Either/Or

Either/Or

by Jennifer Luckett

    Usually the choice is easy. Sleep so I can function the next day, or scroll my feed all night and drag myself up the following morning. Throw off the covers and face another day, or crawl under again and hide from the world. Store the shears in the craft drawer, or use them and bandage the bloody wounds after. Have the salad and run five miles, or eat more sugar and watch the numbers on the scale climb as I dive further into regret about how I look. Return the call and say yes, or ignore him and spend another sleepless night shivering and sobbing until dawn. Put the prescription bottle back on the bathroom shelf, or swallow each pill, hoping this way works this time. Until now, I’ve chosen an existence I’ve never enjoyed, not really living at all. Truthfully, I don’t want to do this, and I’m really afraid of what happens next.  

   Today, I’ve had enough of choosing.

   I ignore the ringtone, knowing the caller wants me to make another choice. It’s the fifth time my sister Julie’s phoned, and pounding on the door lets me know she’s called for help I don’t want. I’ve decided that today is my last day, and all I need to do is push the needle into my arm again. 

   My therapist would tell me because I haven’t done it yet indicates there’s still hope, and she’s right, and also wrong. She helped me when we began. I slept every night, ate frequent meals, wrote, and walked after work. I started to take calls from my family, even planned a visit  home for the holidays, after a decade. I finally felt normal again. Over time, progress halted, like a fallen boulder impeding a river’s run. It began weighing on me yet again, making it harder for me to get out of bed. One day became three, then a month of weeks. Depression pushed me into a barely there routine, just enough to call me a living person that I didn’t want to be anymore.  Julie FaceTimed to check on me, listening to my lies about how much better I felt. I didn’t think it was wrong to pretend I was OK at the time, when I really wanted to be better. I didn’t want to lie to her, but I wanted her to stop worrying, stop calling, and just let me be.

  David saw through my lies, so I broke it off for good. Each time we spoke, he begged me to reconsider. He would finally end things with his fiancee, filling me with enough hope that we could begin again.  He called or texted me after each appointment, which he paid for, ordered and sent groceries to the apartment, wrote long letters, poetic tear-stained epistles littering my desk. But I refused his visits, trying so many times to convince myself that it doesn’t matter, that we were nothing significant.   When I think I’ve convinced myself he doesn’t care, David does something else to make me question everything, what I’m choosing. Maybe he really cares, and even still loves me. if I’d said yes when he proposed, I would be married and making us both miserable, because it’s what I do. Still, David wouldn’t go away, demanding to know why I said no. Finally, I lied, that I never loved him, hoping he would hate me and move on, but he didn’t stop calling me. I think he pities me, because I’m such a mess, though I don’t know why. When he told me last month he was marrying his childhood friend, I sobbed for an entire day, realizing my horrible mistake, giving me another reason to choose this today.

   If I had one reason to choose differently today, it would be David. But, I can’t do it anymore, and yes, it’s all my fault things are the way they are between us. I love him so much, but the problem is, well, I don’t like anything about myself at all, so…

  Looking at it again, I never realized needles were so long, yet beautiful and elegant. I’m not sure which is scarier-its length or sharp point? I barely felt it the first time, and I probably injected enough. I should be at least knocked out by now. Maybe the pills were the better option, but maybe I was wrong that a morphine injection would be easier.

  “Anna, open this door, now!” Julie shouts. I hear hushed voices, and something bangs against the door.

  “Miss Jones, may we enter? Your sister requested a welfare check, ma’am? Are you injured?” The voice of an officer, I’m certain.

  Damnit, she really called for help. 

  “Anna, I know you can hear me, don’t you dare do this!”

  If I answer, I’m out of choices. They’ll come in, rescue me and everything I’m sick of starts again. Assessments, a longer hold, more therapy and medications. I’ve tried it all, nothing helps. I need the pain to end, for good. Why can’t they just let me slip away…

  “Anna?” another voice calls. I can’t stem the tears. 

  David says, “ Anna, I know you don’t want to hear it, but please, don’t hurt yourself. If you really want me to leave you alone, I will, God help me. But I need to know you’re OK. Don’t do  this. I care about you so much.”

  I’m shaking now, not sure if it’s the effects of the injection or his voice. I pick up the needle again, ready to jab myself one last time. Why does this tiny instrument seem so heavy all of a sudden?

  “Miss Jones, we’re ready to enter!”  An object batters against the door as they rush inside the room.

   The pain has subsided. I can’t hold my head up any longer. Their voices grow closer and louder, yet my eyes remain open.

  “Miss Jones, did you take anything?” I watch the paramedics work, lifting me up onto a plastic board. Lights flash in my eyes, fingertips squeeze my wrists, cold instruments press against my skin. One of the medics retrieves the needle, the other speaks into a device. 

  I’m outside the apartment, a gust of wind rushes by me, piercing through my thin top. Julie reaches out her hand as the stretcher passes. David stands beside her, tear tracks lining his cheek. 

  I thought it would be so easy. But have I made a mistake? I’ve wanted to let go of it for so long. Do they really care/? No, they’ll forget this, and me, won’t they?

  It’s all too much, so I choose again, but I can’t keep my eyes open anymore….