Yesterday evening, after a particularly gruesome argument, which was fueled by a bottle of Southern Comfort and Jane's part (and, I'm not sure it provided any Southern comfort), I took Miller out so we could find new nipples for his bottles. He only likes Enfamile orthodontic nipples; anything else and he refuses to eat, no matter how hungry he is.
So, we're headed back home after our little outing; I'm coming from over Durham way when my wireless email pinged. And this is what it said:
I know we are at odds with what we want in life. I am sorry that I am holding you back from whatever it is that you are looking for. I don't think that I can apologize enough. I'm not quite sure what to do to make it up to you. Please accept this as my suicide note. Kind of like a resignation from life. I can't function anymore. Please let Miller know that I love him. I know that this is the selfish way out, but I can't take this kind of hurt. I DO love him. I want him to know that. Please kiss him good-bye for me. Make sure that he grows up happy. I hope that you find happiness. Thank Beth for me.
Shit. I didn't know what do to. I called home; the line was busy. I didn't have numbers of any neighbors, and I'm thinking this reads remarkably like a suicide note.
I called the cops.
I race home, ignoring all speed limit signs, Miller asleep in the back of the car.
I get home before the police; I bolt inside and Jane is at the computer, surfing through her tears. No, she said, she wasn't going to kill herself.
I race back downstairs; two police cars are running in park outside; the cops can't find the address. "In here," I said.
They ended up taking her to the hospital for a psych eval. I think the counsel she was provided there was that I'm an asshole.
I guess I am, although not as large or in the ways she thinks I am.
And this is my life...
At least my Zoloft is working, having removed the lows. Of course, it's also removed the highs, my creative energy, and my libido. But, hey, so be it, huh?
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