3-22-2001 | 2:17 a.m.

How could a doctor that is treating a patient for depression/borderline supply a prescription for 90 Xanax? Well mine did. And when I met with him again and spoke of my anxiety/mania, I didn't expect anything more than the 30 he supplied a few weeks ago. I didn't realize until I was standing outside the building. I looked down at the script. 90 Xanax? Could this be an error? What should I do? I've been on edge/depressed/paranoid. I took the script to the pharmacy. Yes I did. When I picked up the pill bottle I read the instructions:

Take one tablet by mouth three times daily as needed. Maximum daily dose of 3 tablets.

Now I can't pop pills when I'm around my family. So instead of one pill three times a day, I take 3 pills when everyone is sleeping and let the calm take over. And it feels great. And I don't care.

As I sit at the dinner table every night I stare blankly at my Mom or eyes down focused on the food that my body doesn't want. "You're not eating enough!" My Mom utters while shaking her head. I don't care. I have no appetite. The first time I eat is at around 2:00pm. Soup. Always a bowl of soup. Tomato rice or chicken noodle. I long ago stockpiled cans upon cans of soup. Prepared ahead.

But I'm dizzy as hell and I'm also suffering from an inner ear infection. I could barely get out of bed for days. Nausea. I'd stand up and almost fall. And so I reluctantly went to the doctor. And he was like, "You have vertigo caused by inner ear infections - both ears." Fluid buildup and red eardrums or something else like that too. So he gave me some pills for the dizziness. And that was when I asked if I could get a refill on the Xanax script. (Since Xanax, Valium and the like cannot be called in to the pharmacy. The script must be filled out in triplicate and handed to the pharmacist personally.)

I know what set me off. I watched a special on Suicide on HBO. Graphic images of people that succeded. Interviews with people that survived the attempt. The loved ones left behind spoke about the anger and pain. And I started to cry. And I thought of Eddie. Such an important person in my life. One of my closest friends. We met in an outpatient drug/alcohol treatment program. We'd been friends for a little over 2 years, but it felt like much longer. After I became engaged Eddie and I didn't spend as much time together. But we were always there for each other when the urges hit. We'd sit behind a huge oak tree on the hospital grounds and just lie in the grass. Talking or sometimes just laying there, my head resting on his legs.

And then, that day. I walked into the hospital where our outpatient groups were held. A few people gave me odd looks. And then this girl runs up to me, "I'm so sorry about Eddie. I know how close you two were..." My heart raced. "What do you mean?" "Well....he killed himself a few days ago." It was an abrupt and honest answer.

I ran upstairs to my drug counseler's office. "Why didn't you tell me?" I demanded to know. "You've been kind of unstable lately and I didn't want this to push you over the edge." He replied with what I now know was pure concern and pain. He was also Eddie's counseler. "Why? Why?" I sat down in a chair accross from his desk. I couldn't hold back the tears. He offered me a tissue. "How? What did he.." I couldn't say the words. Dan (I wouldn't feel right in using his real name), my counseler, someone I trusted had betrayed me. Information was withheld. I didn't know who or where Eddie's parents were as they had basically given up on him. I did not have the chance to attend his wake and funeral. I didn't know where he was buried. And I know Dan had. He didn't have to tell me. I just knew. And I had no idea where Eddie was put to rest. It seemed so unreal. I recalled the last time we hung out. Only a few days earlier. We had always flirted harmlessly. But that day, before he got in the taxi he turned and hugged me. And then he kissed me. Gently. Closed mouth but warmly. A quick kiss. Something he had never done before. He knew I was engaged. Surprised but calmed, I smiled at him as he got into the cab. "Talk to you soon."

And that was it. I would never be able to speak with Eddie again. No more fits of laughter that had us on the ground holding our stomaches. And I felt the guilt. Was he trying to tell me something? Should I have seen the warning signs? And death. As your heart stops you disappear. You don't exist anymore. I will never lay eyes on you again.

As these thoughts filled me I just sat there in the leather chair. Eyes fixed on the wall. But I couldn't really see anything. Drug counseler Dan finally spoke. "He took a few bottles of pills and then shot himself." And I finally came to from my haze. I leapt out of the chair and yelled. "You didn't tell me! You wouldn't let me say goodbye. I hate you." I raged on and on until the unit psychiatrist was called in. After a long talk I convinced him that I was okay and I was allowed to go home.

So many words left unsaid. Denial. Pain. I wanted to follow him. I was angry with him. "How dare you die!" Selfish of me. And could I inflict that pain on my friends and family? And at this point do I really care? I have a drawer full of pill bottles. Sleeping pills, anti-psychotics, painkillers. And of the course the Xanax. And there's a fucking bottle of Rum on the kitchen counter. Thanks a lot Mom. What an amazing cocktail I could create.

I'm just so damn numb. People talk and it sounds like whispers. And I nod. Not only because I'm not really sure what they've said but because I have nothing to say in return. I take care of what is expected of me everyday. Unfeeling. And I hide and cry. But what am I crying for? I'm sick of hanging around for everyone else. And I can't share these feelings for fear of being locked up on a psych ward again. Maybe even the disgusting and scary NY Hospital. No. Because they would lock me up. And I'd rather die than be in one of those places again.