1 It's A Matter of Time

I realize now that in the end nothing matters in life: we are born and die alone and life continues with or without us. Nothing is permanent I've learned and love is nothing but a moment in time. My mother told me I had been a sad child so afraid of life, not daring to venture farther than the homely cocoon my parents had built; one which i'd so desperately clung to even after our parting. I suppose it is true and as i've grown older I realize that perpetual sadness followed me into adulthood. A sense of melancholy that has rendered me unwilling to live, one that has finally consumed me whole. It is May 4th, 2009 a sunny Monday in my hometown of Chicago and I am going to kill myself.

For many the feeling of sadness comes and goes like rain drops on a seemingly sunny afternoon, bitter yet welcome. For the unfortunate few that sadness swallows them like a monsoon and they are left fighting to breathe until their lungs give out. That's how i'd described it during my last formal visit to my therapist; a sweet but stern old woman named Jean who'd swiftly clucked her tongue upon hearing my assessment.

"How has your sleep been?" Jean asked with undiluted apprehension.

"Good." I responded mechanically. We both knew it was a lie, I struggled to sleep more than three hours a day and that's when i'm lucky.

"That's good, really good. New nightmares?" Once again she asked a fruitless question.

"No. Not at all. Haven't had one in months." Another boldfaced lie.

The rest of the session was spent on her asking meaningless questions and I responding back with effortless lies.

"See you next time sweetheart." That was the last thing Jean ever told me.

This year I'd turned 33, the number of wrinkles on my face grew while the number of suitors dwindled. An inverse relationship I couldn't help but muse. I was a successful Black woman in a post Jim Crow world, an attorney in Chicago. I had been called up to bar two years ago and was on track to establishing my own firm a few years from now.

I had it all my friend, Jess, would remark during our weekly brunch dates on Tuesday her voice tinged with thinly veiled envy. I was used to it. People thinking I had it all, money and success being that 'all'. I was successful in the eyes of society and my broader community for making it out. They failed to recognize that success didn't factor in happiness, it was not a package deal as one would assume.

Sure I had my primary needs met: I had shelter, I had food, I even went to yoga three times a week! But when the night comes and after hours of pretending to be something I wasn't the despair I'd grown accustomed to would hit me full force. Clinical depression was the term used by Jean, characterized by lethargy and suicidal thoughts in some patients, if left untreated there was a chance of committing suicide. A silent killer I'd remarked when I'd first gotten my diagnosis nearly three years ago. Jean had nodded absentmindedly before promising we'd figure out together after all modern medicine had come so far. I was skeptical. Turns out it was for good reason.

My death like my life was going to be a calculated and quite affair. I planned to not leave anything to chance and as such had a few failsafes set in place in order to truly meet my maker. Failsafes such as bullet to the temple and an overdose and just to be sure cutting my wrists. It worked. Almost. After i'd drank my fatal cocktail of drugs and cut my wrists I blacked out, I truly thought I had died until I was rudely woken up by a young asian looking girl dressed in what looked to be ancient garbs.

"My lady! Wake up! The imperial edict is here. Wake up!" Her voice rose an octave after each word uttered. She sounded terribly frightened.

If you'd told me that God-Allah-Buddha whoever was out there controlling the world would not let me die and instead place me in a fantasy world I would've laughed at you. I don't laugh.

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