I remember that day with the kind of clarity that you have when someone close to you dies or two airplanes are flown into the twin towers. My husband was fishing as I sat on the edge of the tub begging God to protect me from myself. The numbness was too much. I just wanted to feel anything even if that was pain. Actually pain was what I wanted. If I just made one cut then I could feel pain for at least a few days. If it scarred I could see it always never forgetting the feeling of pain it brought. Then the numbness would have to go. I sat in that dark bathroom while my boys slept trapped in the house begging God to protect me.
Never before had I felt like this. Never before these "miracle" pills were prescribed. My razor was so close and I longed to see the red flowing down my arms. I only wanted to a few cuts nothing life threatening. I begged some more as tears of hopelessness rolled down my cheeks burning hot reminding me I was broken.
I finally settled on a hair band, hopefully snapping it hard enough would bring the pain I longed for or at least distract me long enough for my doctor to call me back. The band broke flying across the room. Again I reached for a band, no two bands this time. The phone rang. The pills were flushed as the drug was added to my critical list never to be prescribed again.
A day or two passed my husband loved me and never have I wanted such pain again, but I remember the fear, the hopelessness, and the numbness. I said thank you. God heard me. No scars, no being committed into the psych ward, just strong arms to hold me tight while I waited for the pain of depression to return, a pain I preferred to the numbness of those pills.