My Own Personal 9/11

Currently I'm trying not to vomit.

Today ranks pretty high on the list of worst days ever. Funny- well, no, not really- how the phrase "nine-eleven" is no longer two numbers off from a popular convenience store or a general date or time of day. No, now it is a noun with its own particular meaning; a day or event of total destruction and despair, where one feels that the only choice to make is to leap from a window 105 stories above the pavement below. That is right now.

I've watched the hours get shaved from my work schedule for the last couple weeks. I'm drowning in debt. School is about to start kicking my ass. I have four weeks tops to find somewhere to live that I can both tolerate and afford. Financial stress has been eating me alive for months now. But I had one thing. One thing that made me happy. One thing I loved and looked forward to and saw a future in. One thing I thought I could believe in. I was wrong. And that one thing has slipped away.

He told me he loved me. He's been telling me that regularly for the past month, the past 8 months. But what he wasn't telling me was that he was spending his time with another. He didn't cheat, not yet at least. And he said he couldn't guarantee that he wouldn't. So to the trash pile I go. She's prettier, younger, thinner, and less work since she has a much more carefree lifestyle. She also just broke up with her boyfriend and oh-so-conveniently lives upstairs. He said he still loves me, that he's not in love with her. But he wants easy. So I am discarded.

My own 9/11.

So I sit here and watch the flames grow closer and feel the heat singe my eyebrows. I have nothing left, but the decision to either let the fire take me or have one more moment of control and hurl myself from the window and get to experience freedom one more time.

I can't do this again.