A D A Y I N T H E L I F E O F A S E V E R E L Y D E P R E S S E D H I G H S C H O O L G I R L
D A Y 4 5
You know what the worst feeling in the world is? Going to bed sad. I was used to crying myself to sleep, surrounding myself with visions of my death and the empty pews at my funeral tore me apart, but it strangely enough, it also comforted me. To me, death was just this beautiful fantasy where everything would finally be finished. I would finally be happy, and all those who knew me would finally be happy that I was gone. The feeling of cold tears dripping down my face and landing on the pillow was much too familiar to me. It's not that I like crying, in fact I hate it. That was the only thing that would help me sleep...tiring myself out from crying. It sounds so pathetic, but I literally cried myself to sleep every night. There were times when I would PRAY that I would die in my sleep. There were times when I contemplated getting out of bed, grabbing something from my closet that was capable of forming into a nice noose, and hanging myself. Sometimes, I would grab my phone and think about calling you to say goodbye, but I didn't want to be more of a bother than I already was. Besides, what use would saying goodbye do? You must have knew what was coming back then...you must have thought that I would never make it. I didn't want tomorrow to ever come, I just wanted to either pass away into darkness in my sleep or perhaps just remain in my bed all day.
When I did manage to get myself out of bed and ready for school, as soon as I left the front door, my mind would start forming twisted fantasies again. When I got to the corner at the edge of my street, I would think of waiting for the next car to approach from the street over, and jumping in front of it, making it look like I was just a sleepy high school girl who simply wasn't paying attention. I knew that would never work, and I also promised myself that if I did ever end my life, I wouldn't involve innocent people like that. My death would be solitary. I would walk across the large, dew-stained field towards the forest and Gisselle's tiny little house. Still, I imagined that perhaps a friendly neighborhood lunatic was on the loose and perhaps I would be his next victim. By the time I did finally make it to Gisselle's house, I had to keep my fantasies at bay because she always knew when I was feeling upset, because apparently it showed on my face. Little did she know, most of the time I was upset. I just hid everything from her.
After the short, but quiet trip in the car to the school, the fantasies would start again. Everything became I tool I could use to end my life. I judged the distance from the top of the roof to the ground with my eye, wondering if perhaps the fall would be enough to stop my heart. The cars by the school were going much too slow to be any danger to me, so that was out of the option. I would approach the spot where we all used to sit, and sit down away from everyone else. The only time I wanted to chat with anyone was when you were there. As sad as it sounds, I would stare ahead, towards the car loop, looking for you. Usually, E showed up much quicker than you did, so I when I saw E sit down I knew that you couldn't be that far behind. I would scoot closer towards the group, because I knew that's where you would be. You were the only one who could take my mind off of suicide...most of the them. On particulary bad days, no one was of much help.
Once you sat down next to me, the time went much too fast. You were such an interesting person to me, and I wanted your full attention. It was childish, but I would do anything to make sure that my mind didn't venture away from you, because I knew if it did, everything would start to go dark again. I was annoying, I admit, but you had no idea what I was going through...I wanted attention. I wanted hugs. I wanted everything. When I hugged you, everything felt okay. I loved that. I loved hugging you because, in a way, that was the only thing that made me feel like I was really alive. Feeling another person that close to me, made me feel like perhaps I was a tad bit more important than I had thought. Unforuntely, you couldn't be there for me all day. It was impossible. You were there to get me through the morning, but the rest of the day was going to be hard. I knew the twisted thoughts would come back, and without you there, there was nothing I could do about them.
YOU ARE READING
73 Days
Non-FictionA series of letters to a once best friend, a series of letters he may never get to read. There are 73 days in summer, and that means 73 days of change. From a suicidal, depressed, self-harm addicted teenager into a (hopefully) stable young woman, th...
