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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.