"Happy Mother'sssssday," I mumbled as I popped the lid off of her cup of hazelnut coffee and poured it slowly into the dirt in front of me, watching it quickly disappear into the dry ground.
When the cup was empty, I put the lid back on and set it down next to me, reaching for the bag with the bagel in it. I had to widen my eyes and blink a few times to get the bag to come into focus so I could open it and remove the cinnamon crunch bagel. I set it down right on top of the headstone and let out a huge sigh.
"I can't do this without you. I hate that you're not here. I hate it so much," I said to the picture on the headstone, trying in vain to keep the tears at bay. They rolled down my cheeks on their own volition and dropped onto my knees.
I picked at a few stray blades of grass that had popped up around the disturbed earth and began breaking little pieces off while the tears continued to fall.
"What am I supposed to do without you? How the hell am I supposed to do this?" I cried angrily.
I fiddled with a few more pieces of grass and wiped my nose on the back of my hand, the words on the headstone and my mother's picture beginning to blur and swirl in front of my eyes.
"I don't want to be here without you. I don't know how…I don't know how to live without you here."
A soft breeze blew through the trees, and I lifted my face up toward the sky and let it caress me, hoping that maybe it was a sign from her that she wanted me to do this, that she wanted me with her. With my eyes still closed, I reached into the front pocket of my shorts and removed the razor, lightly running my thumb back and forth over the top, thinking about how sleepy I was and how easy it would be to just curl up on top of the dirt and take a nap.
Without opening my eyes, I brought the razor to the inside of my wrist and made the first cut.
"How are things with your father?" Dr. Thompson asks.
Her office is bright and airy, and at the start of every meeting, she apologizes and then gets up to shut the blinds, covering the window above her desk so the sun doesn't blind either of us. She always makes a joke about wanting to blind me so I'll forget I'm in a doctor's office and it will trick me into opening up to her more. Every time she says it I wonder if she knew my mother in another life and stole all of her best lines.
I always sit on the buttery soft, white leather couch with my shoes off and my legs curled up underneath me, and Dr. Thompson sits directly across from me in a dark blue recliner. She says it's more comfortable and inviting to talk this way, and she hopes it makes people feel like they're just chatting in her living room. Her office is warm and inviting, which I guess is typical of a therapist's office. I wouldn't know since she's the only one I've ever been to. I always find myself staring at a Thomas Kinkaid painting of a snowy cottage scene on Christmas Eve that hangs on the wall. My parents used to have the exact same painting above their fireplace until my dad removed all traces of my mother the day after she died. I wonder where that painting is now.
"Okay I guess. He always manages to call at the most inopportune times and then gets frustrated when I don't have time to talk. He has no clue how busy I am or that everything doesn't revolve around his stupid drinking problem."
I say this quickly and try to gloss over the importance of those words and what they do to me when I speak them aloud. Dr. Thompson isn't going to be fooled though.
"This is his fifth time in rehab, correct?"
I nod in response, the reality of just how different my life is from a year and a half ago glaringly obvious.
"How do you feel about the fact that he wasn't able to stay sober all those times when he got out?" she asks as she folds her hands in her lap on top of the pad of paper with the pencil sticking up between her fingers.
"Hurt. Sad. Pissed off."
"Your mother's death hit him hard," she states.
"It hit both of us hard. It was unexpected and it shouldn't have happened like it did. I needed him and he wasn't there for me."
Dr. Thompson unclasps her hands and writes a few things on the paper.
"Do you blame your father for your suicide attempt?"
I cringe when she says the word suicide. I don't want to be placed in this category of weak people who have nothing left to live for and feel like it's their only way out. After all of the soul searching I've been forced to do since that day at the cemetery, I've realized I don't really want to die. I just want to feel something other than sadness. Even though I question God every day, and no longer believe in half the things I was taught growing up in the Catholic Church, one thing still remains with me. If I took my own life, heaven—if there even is such a place—is not where I would wind up.