suicide blonde

Suicide blonde was the color of her hair
Like a cheap distraction for a new affair
She knew it would finish before it began
Woah baby, you lost the plan

You wanna make her, suicide blonde
Love devastation, suicide blonde
You wanna make her, suicide blonde
Love devastation, suicide blonde

I am suicide blonde. Devastated. Crushed. Hopeless. Faithless. Love passed by again. I can’t keep trying. I can’t fail anymore. When will I be the one that everyone wants? When will I have all the glory? Not yesterday. Not today.

Tomorrow never comes.

I went out to the clubs with a friend that night. It was a balmy Saturday evening in San Francisco and all the boys were out in Castro. I ordered a vodka cranberry, as usual. I stepped on the dance floor, stripped off my shirt, and let myself free. It was a moment of liberation, of exhilaration. I stood out, but I fit in. I was one of the club kids, one of the regulars; this was my club. I ordered another vodka cranberry. Gave my bartender a kiss, as usual. My friend and I danced all night.

The club closed. I was alone.

Once popular on the dance floor, now solo in the streets.

Waiting for my bus home.

No one looked.

I knew, right then, what had to happen. Sometimes people ask, what made you do it? Sometimes people ask, why?

But they don’t know, I was alone.

Empty.

Frightened.

Angry.

Confused.

 

No one looked.

 

I could have been anyone on that bus. Just another night. Drunk passengers. Uptight bus driver. Some of the regulars on the bus. Sporadically, a group would get on and off, clearly going to/from a party that I missed.

I got off. Walked up my driveway. Turned the key. No one home. I live alone.

I panic. Can I go through with this? I reach out.

Calling: Friend X

Me: I promised I would call before I tried to take my life again.

Friend X: Where are you?

Me: *click

I reach out.

Calling: Mobile Crisis

Me: I want to die and I have the means to do so.

Mobile Crisis: Where are you?

Me: *click

I reach for my pills. 20 sleeping pills. Counted and sorted. 30 anti-depressants. Counted and sorted. 20 anti-anxiety pills. Counted and sorted. I reach for a glass of water.

Calling: Mobile Crisis

Me: I just wanted you to know that I overdosed 10 minutes ago.

Mobile Crisis: Kirk?

It was one of my doctors on my psychiatric treatment team that had answered that call.

Mobile Crisis: We’re sending help to your address on file.

I had no choice. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t hide. The police were already there. Angrily asking me: what made you do it? Angrily asking me: why?

I cried. I had no idea. Would I know before I died?

A breathing tube down my throat. Charcoal to counteract the medication. Ambulance ride at full speed. But I don’t remember this.

Wake up.

Wake up.

Wake up.

Four days have passed. I’m in the ICU with a catheter, breathing tube, IV lines creating trackmarks up and down my arms.

What happened? I remember too well. Not the hospital. But that night. They medically clear me then transfer me directly to the inpatient psychiatric unit.

Kirk?

It was my nurse from previous visits. I took my old bed, grabbed a random book and read to myself. I  interacted well with others. A few were still there from my last visit, most were new.

Kirk?

My psychiatrist arrived to take over my care. Another anti-psychotic. Another anti-depressant. More mood stabilizers. More anxiety meds. Different sleeping pills.

The perfect recipe.

Their tears are fillin’ up their glasses
No expression, no expression
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, no tomorrow

And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I’m dyin’
Are the best I’ve ever had