CHERRY FLAVOURED || Re-Write

FOURTEEN

Trigger Warning: attempted suicide, emetophobia, suicide letter. this is an EXTREMELY sad chapter with loads of description, so if you need to skip, go down to the end and i'll offer a synopsis.

A letter from The Girl who Belongs Elsewhere.

I like to think that I was created to be on another planet. I have lived almost three decades on this planet and I have never felt secure in the place I was supposed to call home. As a child I jumped around a lot; I could never sit still. My mom said it was like a ghost was tickling my belly. Then she said it was because I had ADHD. I just thought it was because I wasn't comfortable belonging where I sat; I was constantly searching for a place made just for me.

To clear things, it was never ADHD. Sure, I have something wired differently in my head, but it's not autism, or ADHD, or something that comes with head trauma. I was fine, and I was a normal kid and am now a peculiarly normal adult. Again, to clear things, I'm not saying people with ADHD or autism are strange. I just said 'normal' because I was called strange throughout my entire childhood.

Now that I am almost thirty, I have yet to feel a sense of belonging anywhere. I've traveled: Texas, Chicago, New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Korea, Italy, London. Yet, I haven't felt at home anywhere. It's strange. I am here in Virginia, in a place I haven't heard anyone say they want to move to, and like an idiot, I have found myself hating this place. More than Texas, more than Los Angeles, more than bloody-fucking-cold Chicago. I don't think I'll find myself at home. Not now. Not ever. There's something missing in this shitty world full of hate. Maybe it's love, or my parents, or it's the inability to feel normal. Not anxious, nervous, suicidal.

Another reason I say I wasn't made to live on planet earth is because I belong in another galaxy. If heaven was a galaxy, I'd probably belong there. I haven't done much wrong but lie to people, cut myself, have an alcohol addiction, smoke more weed than Snoop Dogg, have sex before marriage, throw coffee on Spencer Reid, and have sexual thoughts about Spencer Reid since the day I met him. If he's reading this, which I'm sure he is... I hope you know I've had so many thoughts about you that it could make thousands of pornos. I'm sorry. I know it's perverted but it happened after you spoke to me with a raspy voice, and you suffocated the steering wheel whenever we rode to scenes together, and when we almost had sex, and when we finally had sex.

I know you've thought about me like that too, Spencer. I've seen it in your eyes when you kissed me.

I shouldn't talk about sex and how much I like you in my suicide letter. I don't know if it'll make the 'love of my life' either horny, mad, or depressed. It would be funny to see him go through it all.

I want to say that I am really sorry about taking my life. I have had a lot of happy moments in my life, but they never seemed fulfilling. After each happy moment, I sat in my room, on my lumpy bed, and cried. Not because it was happy and I loved being happy, but because deep inside of me I knew that I was going to be gone before I should be and I wasn't going to take them into account. And DING! DING! DING! I was correct. I am not taking them into account, no matter how happy they were, or how loud I was laughing. Because at the end of the night, I was empty and alone and I hated my life more than before.

I am wired differently. After people–adults like me with a sad life–hang out with their friends, they feel rejuvenated and swelled with joy. Me, hell no. I wanted to die more than I did when I woke up. It's strange how I've been alive for so long. And how I didn't kill myself before I got so successful. Successful meaning becoming a genius and working for the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit. Making more money than my parents ever did. The reason I did this, however, was because I thought it would make me happy: becoming a rich FBI-BAU worker. Fighting criminals. But I don't know why I thought I'd ever be anything but miserable.