In Despair, Time Is Endless

Christa Parravani, author of the memoir Her, recently wrote an essay for DAME Magazine. According to Parravni, “It’s about a time I nearly bought a gun and used it. It’s about more than that, of course. It’s about surviving the desire that nearly killed me. It’s about living.”

On the eve of Thanksgiving, 2007, I ingested 90 pale-blue pills imprinted with the identifier: Lilly 4415. It is a testament to the healing power of years that I no longer remember the design of the drug, the dose, or its true name. My killing pill lives in the same category of memory as the fragrant flowers Mom planted beside my identical twin sister Cara’s and my childhood driveway. Freckled tangerine sepal lilies grew so tall over the asphalt that they bowed to their shadows. Those lilies brushed softly against our Corvair’s passenger side door, a patting whispered drum that both greeted and sent us off. In the remembrance of my suicide attempt, I tether the beginning and wished for end of my life into a circle that thankfully was not forever fused. Now they live together in the same time.

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