Anthony Bourdain passed away.


From suicide I'm sad to say. It's really set me off badly - my head is whirling with ways to follow suit in self harm or worse. Swallowing a bottle of pills, my big kitchen knife. Jumping off the porch. Grabbing the burner while it's on high.

 I keep telling myself the same things I usually do:

None of this is logical, practical or safe. You should not do these things. Usually it works to bring me back, but today it's extra hard. When it gets this hard the spiral in to psychosis seems a breath away and I struggle so hard to maintain a grip on it.

It's all so vivid and invasive, I can't stand it. I called my therapist and left her a message. I almost called a crisis line. I told Matt and my close friends I feel like I shouldn't be alone, but I'm afraid to leave the house.

I can barely keep myself going, much less put on the face of an attentive parent to a wild, savage toddler. I'll stay home, but thanks. Kids. They don't care if you're having a good day or a bad day, they'll just do as they do.  And by no fault of their own, they don't get that Momma is having a bad day of hallucinations. They shouldn't have to get it.

But I did it. I did what he perhaps could not. I reached out. I asked for help - and I even got it. Matt called, pushing me to go out with Chelsea. I said I'd think about it. I called the therapist, hopefully she'll call back.

I'm really heart broken. That man had a way with narratives, showing people that they have way more in common with each other than we think. His descriptions and enjoyments of food was hearty and real. His books were always so visceral and raw, his programs so vivid and lively. He inspired me so much to keep going, and I am.

I took a shower today. I washed, dressed in clean clothes. I ate food. I greeted my babies. I folded the laundry. I'm still here. I'm sorry he's not.