by Adrienne Christian
Once I was headed to kill myself.
It was on a Friday.
Thursday I’d tried with Hennessy and pills but had been unsuccessful.
Now I’d use a fool-proof method — train tracks.
The reason was not an unusual reason — Mother Things. And, long-term unemployment and the things that came with it — eviction, repossession. Creditors. Laughter from people excited to see you and all your shit out on the lawn. You as entertainment. You try to sit on all your shit simultaneously, so folks with trucks don’t ride by and pick it up and sell it.
I left no note. Nothing to say. And if I’d had something to say, I would have said it to who — the family members who’d said, “” You’re 18; you’re grown; you can’t live with me without a job.”
I didn’t pray. What I did do though was smoke my last little roach, have a drink, and play with myself. The only things on earth that made me feel good. I also slept. I went to bed at 9 pm so I’d wake up and catch the morning train. I kept dreaming of my cousin Angelo.
The next morning, Friday, I’m walking to suicide when I hear someone calling my name. It’s Angie (Angelo) calling me back to tell me, “Hey cuz, I had the craziest dream about you last night. I dreamed God came to me and talked to me about you. He said ‘Don’t kill yourself. He loves you.’” Bizarre, right? Stay with me. It gets even crazier…
Three months earlier I was in my mother’s basement with a toothache so bad I would’ve carved it out with a nail file. I took five pills, Excedrin. I knew that was too many, but I was in excruciating pain — the kind you get from never having had health insurance. As I lay there hoping for sleep to come quickly, a little devil came to pay me a visit. We struggled and fought. He was really trying to murder me. Me, a 22-year old girl. The only thing that made it let me up — it had me pinned — is when I started yelling, “Jesus help me.” At the sound of the word “Jesus” the little devil man let me go, and hauled ass off my bed. I remember the way it jumped. It was a long jump, its legs spread like Henri Cartier Bresson’s photo from Porto. That is why later, in July, when I got ready to walk into my death with pills, I couldn’t — because I’d remembered that that little coke-can-sized demon had come the night I’d taken too many pills.
The demon was bad, but life was worse — Yes, Thursday afternoon I’d thought, “I can’t do this.” But by Thursday night I was like, “I have to.” And it was that night that I’d kept dreaming about Angie.
Here’s what I think happened — I think God, or Gods, went before me. God(s) knew I would kill myself with pills in July, so He/She/It/They sent the devil and the toothache in April. It was an excellent plan. It kept me from the pills. And when I got the idea about the train, God(s) went and talked with Angie.
It’s worth mentioning that I’m not a Christian. As a woman, given what the Bible says about women, it would be absurd for me to subscribe to that doctrine. So, I don’t tell this story to prosletyze. What I want you to know though is that God(s) are real, even if Christianity is misogynist shit. And if you’re one of those incomplete-thinking individuals who believes only selfish, weak people commit suicide, you are wrong.
Adrienne Christian is a poet & writer, and fine art photographer. Her work has appeared in Hayden’s Ferry, CALYX, phoebe, Prairie Schooner, The Los Angeles Review as The Editor’s Choice, and others. She is the author of two poetry collections, 12023 Woodmont Avenue (Willow Books, 2013) and A Proper Lover (Main Street Rag, 2017). She is a fellow of both Cave Canem and Callaloo Writing Residencies. In 2007, she won the University of Michigan’s Five Under Ten Young Alumni Award. In 2016, she was a finalist for the Rita Dove International Poetry Award. She earned her PhD in English/Creative Writing from the University of Nebraska.