“Yeah, I’m okay.”
People ask me all the time, and I always say I’m okay, when really I just want to keep people off my case. It doesn’t make me feel any better. It doesn’t change anything. Every time someone says “What’s wrong?” I just feel worse and worse. Their poking and prodding just has an opposite effect. It’s a vicious cycle, one that doesn’t seem to end.
They call me crybaby, but I don’t even care. I’ve gotten used to being called emotional. Eventually they’ll say I’m overreacting. They’ll call me dramatic. Attention whore. As if they know my life. They will never know what’s behind my skull.* They don’t know what’s going on at home. I’m sick of people assuming things about me.
It seems like no matter what I go through, I’m still sensitive. An outsider looking in would say I’ve never been through anything. I suppose they’d be right. There are kids that go through more than I could imagine. Kids who are dying of cancer, or put in foster care. My life could be so much worse. I just don’t look at it that way. You can call me ungrateful, but other people’s struggles don’t lessen the intensity of mine. It’s all just perspective. I’d be a ghost in the hallways at school, silently wandering past people unnoticed. Sometimes they would say things like “Why are you depressed all the time?” The truth is, I don’t know. You don’t ever hear them say “Why do you have cancer?” to someone in the hospital, or “Why do you have a cold? You’ve no reason to have one.” Do I really need a reason? Do I have to justify my every feeling?
People tell me to suck it up, that my heart’s too big for my body. I care too much. I wish I didn’t care all the time.** Believe me, I wish. I’d kill to wake up with no emotions. To just shrug it off and quit letting every little thing fill my mind with negative thoughts. People can watch children die without shedding a tear, while it takes the most insignificant thing to set me off.
Everyone is set on curing me. Everyone just wants to make it all better. They’ll take the blades, they’ll do body checks, they’ll check the journals, they’ll supervise my every move. They’ll force me to go to therapy, as if talking about my problems with a random stranger will make them go away. They’ll prescribe every drug in the book. There’s still something missing. I can feel it. My parents aren’t solving the problem, they’re doing what everyone else does about depression. Keep them safe. That’s all that matters. Right?
I really hate being safe.*** It feels like I’m being watched all the time, concerned citizens who want to make sure I survive. I’m sick of surviving. I just want to live. I want people to stop seeing me as the basket case on the verge of suicide and start treating me like a person. It just gets worse and worse, a downward spiral that only affects me. Watch them all the time. Make sure they never feel normal. Don’t bother respecting privacy. If parents checked rooms regularly, school shootings would never happen, right? Privacy is nowhere near as important as safety. As long as she’s safe, we’re being good parents. I feel so cut off from everyone else. There’s the normal kids, and there’s me.
When my parents decided to take all of these “safety precautions,” I started rebelling. Psycho or not, I should still have rights. Right? So I spend a lot of time home alone due to their work schedules. So I go into their room and “check” everything they own. If I can’t have privacy, why should they? I’d went through my dad’s phone at one point and found some questionable people in his contacts at one point. He might be able to send me away, he can ruin my life, but I can ruin his marriage. They’re trying to control me, so I’m controlling them. That’s just what they deserve. I don’t care that they’re the adults and I should be submissive. They shouldn’t be meddling in my life. What goes around comes around, right?
One day I had gotten in trouble for something and my father had said, “I just don’t know what we’re going to do with you! I swear, this family would be so much better off if it wasn’t for all your drama. One more thing, and you’re going to a mental institution. I’m not putting up with any more.”
I was ready to pack my bags and go to that mental institution, until I started wondering why. What’s the point of going on if everything just keeps getting worse? There’s no point in looking forward to the future. It’s not like I’ll ever be a songwriter. If my only dream is impossible, and going on is oppressive, I should just end it. I’m done. No more tears.
I’ve thought about doing this for a while, but tonight I’m finally certain this is what I want. This is what I need. I need a way out, and this seems to be the only way.
I didn’t ask for depression, but now I’m asking for death.
I walked in the kitchen and got a two-liter of Sprite from the fridge. It was dead silent, forcing me to think. I don’t want to think. I can’t rethink this decision. There’s no hope. No reason to hesitate. I turned my focus towards the medicine cabinet, grabbing every bottle I could reach. Surely eight would be enough. I don’t want to feel my death. I turned on my favorite album, turned all the lights off except my bedside lamp, and settled into bed. With the Sprite in one hand and a random bottle of pills from the medicine cabinet in the other, I took my first pill. After that, I felt so powerful. Like, I could die right now, and I have control over that. It’s nice to have control over me for once. No one is telling me to do this. No one is here to stop me.
I took pill after pill, sipping Sprite in between. I mixed and matched, taking a few from different bottles. This was like a game. I dumped them all out, and observed the pile of different-colored capsules next to me. I let them run through my fingers. It felt so satisfying. I kept playing with them as if they were only marbles or beads. This was strangely fun. Completely psychotic fun, but fun, nonetheless.
Listening to the music and playing with the pills, I started feeling dizzy. My head started hurting like crazy. I laughed and told myself that meant it was working. I just swallowed more, then I realized how many people would miss me in the morning. How many people would pretend to miss me. All the people that wouldn’t care.
I’m laughing, I’m crying. It feels like I’m dying.****
I cried bitter tears, knowing they would be my last. I felt them roll down my cheeks as I took more pills. I wonder what would happen. How many people would miraculously appear at my funeral, despite not showing any interest in me while I was living.
I calmed down for a bit, thinking about what’ll happen from here. Would I go to heaven? Hell? Do they even exist? What if I regret this decision? Should I just call my mom and ask her to take me to the emergency room? No, it’s too late to do that. She’s at work
Soon my head hurt so much, I had to lie back on my pillow. I started shaking and knew this was it. The poison’s taking over. There’s no turning back. I’ll finally escape. I dropped the pills from my shaky hands and kept crying and wishing it could be over already.
Then, I blacked out.
*quote taken from Twenty One Pilots song "Anathema"
**quote taken from Melanie Martinez song "Play Date"
***quote taken from Melanie Martinez song "Mad Hatter"
****quote taken from Melanie Martinez song "Pity Party"
Points: 18525
Reviews: 118
Donate