Open Book

The Day is Monday, March 10th.

The day is Monday, March 10th. Today is the day of my suicide attempt. Today is the day my mother will find me, pale and unstable. Today is the day. Except it's not.

The day is Monday, March 10th. I'm a junior in high school. I have SATs tomorrow. I have to apply for colleges soon. I have 6 tests on Friday. I have to turn in a scholarship application, with an essay about my skills. I'm not good at anything. I'm too tired to be good at anything. I can't keep friends. I can't get good grades. I can't do anything right. I struggle to understand my place in this world. Except I don't think I belong here. And I don't. But I pretend. I pretend I can play sports. I pretend I can play instruments. I pretend I can sing. I pretend I can learn without having to read the book. I paint make-up on my face, I paint the smile until it is stuck. I put on the clothes that portray me as normal. I wake today, and I do not do any of this. It's too hard to keep up this appearance now. 

The day is Monday, March 10th. I have to explain to my mom why I didn't put in the application for the scholarships. I have to explain to her why the teachers have said my grades have dropped. I have to explain to her why I don't want to go to soccer practice. I have to explain to her why I can't possibly attempt to apply for colleges this summer. I have to explain to her why I'm so upset. Why I can't pretend to be happy. Except I don't know why I feel irritable and angry and tired. I'm so tired. Exhausted. Exhausted from pretending, from trying to hold the pieces together so tightly my hands are raw. My grip is never strong enough. How do you explain that? I can't explain a reason that seems to be too large to fit into words. How do you tell anyone that? Especially when you are asked to explain yourself, and they don't listen. They never listen. Why cant she hear me? Can't she see me? She doesn't seem to understand that I don't even know what's wrong. I don't know why I feel this way, it's just here. It looms over me like a dark cloud and I can't get out from under it. It rains and it rains and it rains, and I just cannot be free. She seems to think I can fix it with an attitude adjustment. Punish me and make it better. Give me more chores or more things to do or even a visit to my very strict grandmother. Please, Mom. Please understand that this will not make it better. Just, please read through the lines. I'm trying to say goodbye. I'm trying to apologize for what I am about to do to you. But I don't say anything as she rants and raves about how horrible I am. I say nothing as she argues with herself. She's angry and says she wishes I wasn't so lazy, that I would say something; anything to prove her right. That I have an attitude that needs to be fixed. I won't be horrible anymore, Mom. I'm sorry. I love you.

The day is Monday, March 10th. It's 11 p.m. I'm sitting on the bed in the very same room I share with my 13-year-old baby sister. My sister who does not deserve to be involved in my problems. She is awake, but I wait for her to sleep. Still, I threaten her and tell her not to tell mom what I'm doing. She thinks that I mean just the pretty little silver that I hide with tape to the shelf of my nightstand. I let her swear she won't tell, swear that she doesn't know anything. Then, when she's asleep, I take 13 ibuprofen and 15 Tylenol PM, the last of the stock in the house. Sorry, Allison. I know you just want me to be nice to you. That won't happen until I'm gone. At least you get your own room. Sorry, mom, she doesn't deserve me to be this mean. I'm almost done. I slice my arms with the new blade that pulled apart from the box cutters in the laundry room. The familiar rush of adrenaline spills from my arms and coats my sheets. My clean white sheets are red and the mattress is stained with pooled blood, but I'm too tired to care now. The drugs and the lost blood have done their job. Sorry, Mom. I don't mean to be so lazy and not clean up after myself. But I'm tired and I'm calm and weak. I'm tired. I'm ready. The drift to sleep was finally easy. I've never fallen asleep so soon. Never to wake up, eager to see the unknown paradise that awaits me.

The day is Tuesday, March 11th. I wake up. I wake up. I wake up. I wake up and I'm angry. I was ready. I was fucking ready. I was. God, I can't do anything right. I can't even kill myself right. I'm such a disappointment. I disappoint everyone. I'm incapable of anything. My mom knocks on the door. She says I have SATs today. She says I need to hurry up. I have a headache. I feel nauseous. I feel dizzy. I should tell her that I'm sick, but after this test, I have the rest of the day off. She's not interested in excuses. You have shit to do, she says, be sick later. 

 Are you ready? No. But how do you tell her?

 Yes, mom. I'll be out in a minute, thank you for waking me up. Thanks for waking me up.