December 17
I will not get out of bed.
Earlier, I opened the medicine cabinet, emptied the bottle of Vicodin onto the closed toilet lid and counted—twenty-two tablets. I don’t know if it’s enough to overdose but I imagine it could be, and I don’t have the courage to find out. I will not eat.
I wake several times, vaguely recalling precise details of really violent dreams. An ax, weeds, the edge of a well bubbling with black blood, a chainsaw, slapping then punching then biting a man’s ear off, and finally dislodging a pretty little boy’s eye-ball and touching the smooth inner heart of his painfully tearing eye socket.
The dreams are a good sign. Anger is much easier to handle than depression.
