Sweet Oblivion

120 pills couldn't kills me, though once, heroin did.
120 pills couldn’t kill me, though once, heroin did.

About a year ago, I tried to kill myself, when my meth addiction peaked, costing me everything. Since coming into recovery, I thank GOD every day, that I failed. I know suicide gets angry reactions. I know people think it’s selfish, and weak, and their anger shows me that though the person committing suicide may be selfish, suicide itself is not selfish in its impact, because it touches EVERYONE, even those who just read about it. Our revulsion at the thought of someone taking their own life is hard-wired into our very souls. The arrogance of it all…who are you…who am I, to try and take my own life? Who died, and made me God? I don’t know why I had to write this piece…I cannot think that there is much need for a sympathetic view into the crazed mind of a self-killer. I won’t call them a victim – there are no victims here, just survivors, and the dead…here’s what happened, the day I killed myself:

December, 2011. My hands are dripping with sweat. There’s no air in the room. There’s no air in the room because I have locked the door and bolted the windows. I have locked the door and forced two chairs up under the handle. No one can break into the room through that door. I’ve bolted the windows, lowered the blinds and closed the curtains. I’ve tied three or four sheets over the curtain railings and a blanket, too. No light will escape this room, none will enter from outside. I have two large butcher’s knives on the bed. They’re not for me, they’re for whoever tries to break into the room, to stop me…

My hands are dripping with sweat. Five pills in my clammy left paw are starting to melt, the blue dye in the plastic coating staining my skin as if I’ve just wrung the life out of some tiny alien thing.

I can’t look at my hand. I look around me…my worldly possessions reduced to nothing, a few oil-stained, torn clothes, some battered old shoes. A book. A mirror. This old bed, and its old sheets. And me… and the precious, precious crystal meth. God! How I love it! How I need it! I want it…want its smooth, silky vapours to caress my throat as I suck it in; its gorgeous heavy smoke to roll out of my lungs and down my hot, sweaty almost-corpse. My reason to live, and my destroyer, so neatly bound in one creamy crystal. It’s almost finished…

It’s almost finished, that’s why I’ve unpacked the pills, all 120 of them, and placed them on the bed in front of me…picked up five…how long have I been holding them? Five minutes? Ten? An hour? They’re melting. I can’t look at them, can’t bring them near my face…I feel them, feel the decay, and the end of the madness, melting through my fingers. In one hand, my doom and addiction, in the other, my death and salvation: meth and sleeping pills: this is my  dead life, my living death, my sweet end.

Can’t bear to look at them. I grip the pills tighter and with my right hand I hold the meth pipe over the candle for one last hit, and it’s not even a good one. I’ve smoked it all, smoked more than two grams by myself today. And how many yesterday? Don’t know. Don’t care. Cris doesn’t want to do this thing, this friendship – this relationship – this life, anymore. I can’t live without him and I cannot live with him. The meth has cost me everything – I lost my job, my car, most of my friends, and I don’t want to fight with my family anymore. Or Cris. I can’t take the fighting anymore. We used to be so close, and now, there is only oblivion between us. I can’t go on. Don’t want to go on. The lies, the loss of everything, the madness, the exhaustion…the paranoia. Lack of sleep. A pointless existence. I live to get more meth, nothing more, everything less.

How long have I been holding these pills? Five minutes? Ten? An hour? They’re melting. How many times has that looped through my head? How long have I been holding these pills?

Pick up the orange juice. Don’t look at the pills. Put the pills in my mouth. Gag. Spit them back into my hand. Retch. There is vomit everywhere. Put the pills in my mouth one by one, but I retch again. Fuck! WHAT KIND OF FUCKING LOSER AM I, THAT I CANNOT EVEN SWALLOW FIVE FUCKING LITTLE PILLS? Anger. That works, FEED on it. FUCK THIS! FUCK THIS LIFE! FUCK YOU ALL! I HATE YOU! I HATE Y…. I hate me…NO! FEEL the anger! Don’t feed the pity! Fuck them! I haven’t even left a note, fuck that. I’ll die, and then you’ll be all alone, like I am right now, and then you’ll know, you’ll know why…you’ll know why…because the fucking drugs don’t work – THEY DON’T WORK and they’ve cost me EVERYTHING and EVERYONE who ever mattered! FUUUUUCK! I hate this life! I hate what this life has done to me. I hate what I’ve become. I hate. I fear. I fear living. I fear tomorrow. I am so scared that there will be an ‘after’, filled with loneliness, and despair, and poverty, and madness. I fear the damage the drugs have done to my brain, to my mind – I lost my grip on reality months ago, and it’s so bad now I hear voices all the time. I fight with Cris because of it – I’m not even sure he’s not doing this to me, that he’s causing this madness, that he’s trying to kill me. I’ve seen it, seen that cold, heartless look, felt his punch and his kick – is it so hard to believe he would be trying to make me kill myself? NO! This is the drug talking! This is the madness! INSANITY! WHERE ARE MY FUCKING PILLS? Oh…right here…how long have I been holding these pills? Five minutes? Ten? Pick up the orange juice, take a gulp, force the pills in- SWALLOW, GODDAMMIT!

They’re in. Cold juice is running down my chin and I am on the verge of retching again. There is vomit on the bed. WHAT HAVE I DONE?



I’ve done exactly what I have been wanting to do for several years, now, the madness crystallising into frenetic addiction – cause and effect – which came first? The chicken, or my death?

I am not afraid of death. I died before, on heroin. It’s living I can’t face. It’s THIS life I can’t face.

Five sleeping pills. I have swallowed them. It took five minutes…or ten. Or maybe an hour? I can’t remember. There are one hundred and fifteen more pills on the bed in front of me, covered in sick, rank vomit.



It takes just five minutes to swallow every single one of them.

It’s a Sunday afternoon. Cris and I have just had another fight but I have no fight left in me, and I have just locked myself in my room – we have separate rooms, because we’re just enemies, you know. I have locked myself in my room and I have committed suicide. I have ended the madness, the addiction, the fights, the hatred, the suspicion, the lies, everything.

Goodbye, cruel world, and fuck you.

© Dave Luis 2012. All Rights Reserved.

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