Iridescent Grace

Sitting cross-legged on the right side of our dark-cherry sleigh bed, I peered into my husband’s open nightstand drawer. My eyes were fixed on the .22-caliber pistol nestled among the contents, the cold, gunmetal gray a mirror image of my soul. Deep inside me, the last fiber of good sense battled an overwhelming desire to be dead. I didn’t necessarily want to kill myself; I just wanted to be dead. Nightmares interrupted my sleep almost every night. Fear and anxiety were my constant companions.

I used to enjoy lounging around on Saturday mornings but not anymore. Even the silky feel of my pajamas did nothing to lift my mood. My husband, Grant, up at six with airboat in tow by seven, was fishing on the Gulf and wouldn’t be back until after dark. Our youngest daughter, Anna, slept in her one-bedroom apartment attached to the other side of our house and wouldn’t stir until noon. I had about an hour left.

The Florida sun streamed slivers of light into the room through long, thin gaps in the curtains at each window. Moments before, I had been standing at one of the large nine-paned bedroom windows, slightly parting the curtains to investigate a commotion. Two redbirds squabbled at the bird feeder, disrupting for a moment the usual quiet of our backyard. As one flew away, the other began to sing, inciting others to join in.

It wasn’t long ago the deadness of winter had yielded to spring. Gardenia and rose buds burst forth and matured, perfuming their surroundings, while cardinals, blue jays, and even the plain brown mockingbirds performed like there was something to sing about. I could see it and hear it; I just couldn’t feel it. Evidence of life was everywhere—except in me.

“Shut up, birds.” I put my hands to my ears. Silence. Better. The winter’s bleakness, long gone for most, clung to me. Why am I like this? I longed to know. My mind ran through the gamut of concerns, searching for anything that would shed light on the root cause of my incessant apprehension.

…

A wave of panic smothered me. Why now? My chest tightened. My fingers began tingling. Lord, help me. I wanted to scream but knew if I did, then I would never stop. Forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths, I looked around for something to refocus on—anything that would keep my mind tuned to the present.

On the floor by the dresser, a mountain of clothes waited to be washed, dried, and put away. All that laundry for just two people? Focusing on that, I calculated there were about six loads. I took another deep breath and continued to look around the room.

The huge dark-cherry dresser, cluttered and layered in dust, stood as a testament to my increased apathy to housecleaning. The tall bulky chest of drawers on the opposite wall wore the dust-covered silk plant like the headpiece of a shroud. Even the “Footprints” wall hanging, coated in dust, drooped. Heaviness surrounded me. This place looks like a mausoleum. Perfect.

I squared myself on the bed. The subtle Florida coastal theme I’d used to decorate this room originally had diminished the impact of the massive furniture. The king-sized comforter—a seashore print of soft aqua dotted with shells of antique gold, burgundy, and turquoise—once had brightened the room. Now, in spite of the slender surges of sunlight pouring in, the room was dark, depressing, and dusty.

Everywhere I looked, something needed to be cleaned, washed, or put up. I’m through—through with all of it. My arms weigh a ton, and my legs have no strength. Even my head feels heavy. It’s just too much. I don’t even want to think anymore. I am tired of pushing myself. Dead is … dead. No thinking, no pressure. Only dark, silence, and then peace.

I heard my phone ding in my purse. A new text. Don’t care. Too tired.

…

My chest hurt; I felt hollow. Maybe I need to eat something. What’s the point? People eat to live. I don’t want to live. I’m tired. I lay back on the pillow and longed to melt into the bed. My eyes closed.

Sinking farther into the abyss, I pictured my demise. Pills wouldn’t be as messy, but if they find me too soon and revive me, I’d have to do it all over again. At least with a pistol …