(Source: live-life-tipsy)

     Can I still get into heaven if I kill myself? My heart pounds like a bass drum, I can hear it, yet I feel nothing. Not even the blood running down my arm, or my veins swelling and pulsating from the immense medication in my system.

     Something in my heart goes cold.

     Like a vulture slowly picking at a dead body as it decays, my depression and caraphernelia take over. I guess you could call it a relapse. Seven years too long. There is only so much dysfunction a person can take before they snap.

     Shifting my car into park I realize I don’t remember the drive to school, as if I was on auto piolot the entire time. “Atmosphere” was blasting through the speakers. I prefer music over books because, “Songs don’t wait to resolve, and because songs mean so much. Stories wait for endings, but songs are brave things bold enough to sing when all they know is darkness.” (Rachel Yohe). There are construction workers in my head pounding on every inch of my skull simultaneously. I can barely see straight as I walk into school through the cold wind biting at my uncovered face.

     Like any other morning of my sophomore year I stumble into class to my vacant desk. I haven’t slept in 36 hours, and wont for another 24. Papers rustle and pencils scratch at the pages, making useless marks the students will never look at again. I stare at the board, then down at my desk, and back up at my teacher. His voice fills the room, but I’m not listening. My thoughts stood guard around my ears, not letting any of his information actually enter my brain. It was too overpopulated with thoughts. What is it like for her at home? I bet his parents love him. I wish I looked like her. Why did I even bother coming in today?  Startled by the bell, I knock over my water bottle. By some miracle the cap was on and nothing spilled. Gathering my two folders I head for the bathroom.

     I’m keeping my distance, stomaching nothing, and reaching for no one. I’ve never felt like this. Death and voices never filled my head. I used to feel like everything was perfectly in order, a normal life, but I guess then came a departure; first, the feeling of abandonment and then trying to cope. I’m getting worse. I’m increasingly aware I’ve been painting things in gray, increasingly alive to every cloud up in the sky, I’m afraid it’s going to rain.

     “You left your room a mess this morning. I told you not to do that anymore. You couldn’t even make your bed before you left.”

     “Hi, Mom.”

     “Why did you do so bad on your test? You studied didn’t you?”

     “Yeah, I tried really hard. I just didn’t understand it.”

     “What are we going to do with you?” My mom yelled with the look in her eye that could make me turn to stone. Just kill me. “You can’t even do the little things right.”

     Dominoes are tricky, if one falls, every one adjacent begins to crash, causing an awful chain reaction. Before you know it the intricate design and time you spend setting up the dominoes is a waste, and you must start again to set them back up. Eventually you give up and let them fall. My home is no longer fit to be called a house. This is the first big jolt shaking the table my dominoes are so fragilely placed upon. “Don’t worry, everything will be okay. I’m sure it isn’t that bad.” Everyone assures me. No, shut up. You cannot judge another’s pain. 

     Headaches become unbearable to the point when constantly popping Advil or any other medication is the only way to cope with the pain. There is no way around it; I am self-destructing. The pain never goes away, no matter what I do. There is only one way out. No one will miss me so what the hell.

     Heading straight to my room I open the dresser drawer to drive away the pain. Silver in hand, anger running down my cheeks. I don’t think I am trying to kill myself, but if I go too far I don’t care. Slowly I drag the blade across my wrist, hoping for the courage to press down. I close my eyes to forget the bleeding. I have nothing to turn to except the little white pills and the new bottle of Nyquil to make my troubles disappear. I pray to get sleep tonight. It comes with a cost.

     I wake up in a cold sweat, itching, scratching, and trying to escape the skin which barely fits me. Black eyeliner is smeared across my pillow sheets. They are saturated with hard nights, tears, hurt, and hate. I could wash them, but it would not matter. These cotton sheets could be washed a thousand times and they would never be clean.

     Picking up my phone, I send one last text to Ryan, “Thank you for everything. Let me help myself now.” He knows exactly what it means. My phone buzzes as soon as I set it down on my dresser. I ignore it. The dark cold room begins to spin as if I stepped into a fun house tunnel; however, there is no light at the end. Medicine fogs my system and I go towards the edge. Standing as close to the edge without falling over I am able to see things I could not see from the center. I’m not meant to go just yet. My phone buzzes. “Please don’t go Jillian, I love you. I don’t need an angel yet.” Then, darkness engulfs me as I let it all go. The pain, the stress, the hurt, the hate falls down my cheeks to the floor. I am afraid to fall asleep. For the first time in a long time, I want to wake up.

     By a miracle, my alarm wakes me at 6:30 A.M. Is this heaven? Is this hell? No, it is my bedroom, my bed, my dresser, and my house. I am alive. Stumbling out of bed I grip the sides of my mirror. Staring at my own reflection, I cannot believe what I have become. A stinging sensation in my wrist forces me to look down at the ‘faith?’ I had carved into my arm the morning before. Opening new eyes, I put down the knife for the last time.

     Looking out my window I see the dark silver van pull into my driveway. Still numb from the events of the previous night, I clutch an object in my fist and walk out to meet him. His eyes were red and swollen. I could tell he hasn’t slept very well since the last time that we spoke. We didn’t say anything. Extending my closed hand, he extends his. I had handed him my last razor from the night before. “thank you” Is all I can manage to get out before my eyes begin to burn as the tears beg to be let out. Ryan pulls me in close and holds me. I can barely hug him back so I step away. We stare at each other for what feels like an hour without saying anything. Words didn’t need to be said at this point. The looks in our eyes were as if we were apologizing for everything. I realize someone really does care about me.

     Whoever I was I cannot be again. I’ve always had a thing for reading books about teenage struggle. Whether it is about cutting, eating disorders, or suicide. I’ve read books about girls in mental hospitals for cutting, anorexia, bulimia, and suicide. I’ve read through their struggles while living through mine. Never would I have guessed I too, would be one of those girls in those hospitals. I can’t run away any longer and eventually, I’ll need the help they did. We live on the cusp of death thinking it will not be us, but anger is one letter short of danger.

(Source: live-life-tipsy)