Viktor Frankl, finding meaning, getting through.

I’m sitting on my bed, still groggy, under-rested, over-caffeinated; legs outstretched on crumpled white sheets and a grey blanket sprinkled with dog hair and gluten free pretzel crumbs. I want to be one of those people who never eats in bed, irons their sheets (has them ironed by someone else!) but I’m not, never will be. Whatever.

On a cold day in January I tried to kill myself. I was 16. I sat at my kitchen table and poured out a bottle of Tylenol, or maybe Advil, I don’t think we had Advil in 1984 so it must have been Tylenol. I sat at my yellow formica kitchen table, fluorescent bulbs flickering overhead, and swallowed one pill at a time.