Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Overheard by Sasha on the Centre Street bridge in Calgary
On the hottest day of the year, I decided to bury myself in the backyard, under the apple tree, as a way to escape. Bob thought it was a suicide attempt. When I came to in a hospital bed, with an IV drip and my mother breathing her white wine spritzer breath in my face, I couldn’t believe my attempt to cool down had gone so terribly wrong. Figures. Bob looked all self-satisfied for oh, about, three whole weeks following. I kept telling him “I’m not depressed! I so so content with my life! I don’t want to die!” But I don’t think he believed me. The funny thing is, when the man you’ve been married to for thirteen months and known since you were in Grade Four, thinks he knows something so fully, so wholly, you start to believe him. I started to believe him. I checked myself into a psych ward on September third and told the nurse, smiling, that I was having thoughts of self-demise of the sound of dirt in my ears, the taste in my mouth, I just wanted to be buried… Alive, maybe, but under the ground. “Maybe you should set up in the basement?” My therapist said.