The morning after I killed myself By Meggie Royer

The morning after I killed myself, I woke up. I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels. The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed. The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine. The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication. The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother. The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach. The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started. By Meggie Royer

I am a survivor of a suicide attempt. Yes I tried to kill myself. The pain is so great, that even with coping skills, a support team, I tried to kill myself. I have known people who finished the deed. I have watched the aftermath. I have lived the aftermath, with my family. You don't think about what goes on after you die.  Some say we are selfish to put our families thru this. I have lived to see the pain on my sons face, him trying to figure out why, and at the same time, thankful that I still lived. Its only been 7 months since that fateful day. I didn't get up that morning and decide to die. It was a great morning, I had just returned from visiting my 92 year old mom. I was happy to be back at The Art Project llc. So much to do, happy to see my dogs. It was just a great day. Plans for moving forward with the project. Yes, a very happy day UNTIL  I got the phone call from the property manager, telling me he needed to talk to me. The day my world ended as I knew it. 

After he had said his bit, I left the office, dead inside. I went back to the art studio, I really did try to get a hold of my support team. It didn't happen, and then a peace came over me, and I swallowed the bottle of pills. Laid back in my recliner and went to sleep. No note, no explanation, as always, my problem, my solution.