A lot of people freak out when they graduate high school. I didn't think I would be one of them. Up until the very last week I approached the event with complete nonchalance. Beyond high school my life was scheduled and color-coded, each little detail categorized neatly under "college," "career" and "lovelife." I would be going to a religious college with my sister—I reasoned that even though I wasn’t interested in doctrine, I would be with my best friend and confidant. I would then proceed with my career. I had nothing in particular planned, but I knew I wanted to be an industrious woman, a lawyer or doctor or something of that nature. As for love: it would go perfectly. I was “in love” with my then-boyfriend, and things would progress smoothly. Even though we would be separated by thousands of miles, our “devotion” would make it work. Once I was old enough, he and I would get married, and I would have my fairytale wedding night, during which I would lose my virginity. I would then crank out two children and happily juggle family, work, and somewhere in there, spend copious amounts of time with my best friends, who I had known all my life, and with whom I wanted to share everything.
Seriously, I had it coming.
From somewhere out of the blue, on the last day of school, I came down with a nasty case of manic-depression, ripped out large quantities of hair, kicked and screamed my way into—and out of—a hospital, effectively devastated all of my childhood friendships beyond repair and began to fixate on suicide. I had never considered killing or even harming myself before, and yet there I was, methodically removing the skin from my forearms with a file until the jagged blotches oozed blood. I did not fool with razors. I didn’t kid myself: I knew I was doing it for the attention, the lovely distraction… I was after the large jagged scars that would shock someone, anyone, into dragging me far away from all of it and hiding me someplace safe, so I would never have to face anything again. I was lazy, I was a coward—I didn’t want to live, but God be damned if I wasn’t going to procrastinate that looming unknown of death. Never had I thought it was possible, that I could so immaculately destroy everything I held dear, in a few short days. Days! And those days would set the course for the rest of my shitpail life. How can a person go from marveling at the alien phenomenon of depression, to suddenly viewing the idea of living as entirely unpalatable?
I will never forget the therapist who intercepted me after my first attempt suicide. He rubbed his eyes blearily—it must have been three in the morning—and proceeded to reprimand me. Not for the attempt on my life, but for how poorly it had been executed. He then mentioned a case he had worked on, years before, concerning a young girl whose parents had forced her to drink cups of water as punishment until she drowned. He suggested I try that, next time I wanted to die, then told me to finish drinking my sickly-sweet charcoal—otherwise whatever flimsy compound I had ingested might keep me on the gurney longer. I look back now and laugh at my own inanity. What did I expect? A concerned doctor who would promptly admit me to a safe, relaxing psyche ward? A gaggle of nurses to fuss over my wellbeing? This is fucking life, and in the real world, your tragic little existence doesn’t mean shit. It wasn’t malice that doctor had displayed, as I imagined it for many months… it was reality.
I ran through four therapists, and the accompanying costs sapped my parents' hard-earned savings. My sister decided to get married very young—something she had promised she wouldn’t do—and left me isolated in a sea of nonsensical gospel, and the nonsensical people drawn to it. The college itself is one of the most demanding in the country to boot, so I settled right into probation before my first semester was up, due to my inability to drag my ass out of bed. My addiction to sleep has notched my concentration. I can barely finish a flash card, let alone an essay—and fuck grad school; I can’t even fathom making it to next month, let alone years into the future. The idea of tackling a real career seems as distant as the peak of Everest.
The best of it all, however, has to be the fact that I lost my virginity during a dull movie, on a $15 couch, to the boyfriend whose affections lasted years before he finally realized this shit wasn't worth it. He was there for me through my breakdown, my migration to a different college, my fickle and oftentimes cruel behavior… it might have lasted longer, too, except that I did not meet his bedroom standards. Perhaps we did have something, at some point. Perhaps we might have lasted, if I had not been so malicious, if I hadn’t been shit in bed. I’ll never know. It ended. Not amicably.
I am aware that my problems are my own doing… and that there are bigger things in this world than myself. As I type this, I know families are fleeing war and famine, that a child somewhere is being beaten to death, and that the political and biological worlds continue to degenerate. But doesn’t that just compound the undeniable fact that life, in general, sucks ass?
If anyone finds a reason to live, please let me know. For the moment, I believe I’ve made my decisions. As the saying goes… I've made my bed. Now, I can sleep in it. | |
Your writing is beautiful. That perhaps doesn't mean much, but its different from the generic "keep your head up" or "pray to God" statements that have become contagious on this site.
I come here out of boredom and, admittedly, to make myself feel better, despite the fact that I have love and a place to live.
I guess my point is, beautifully written story of tragedy. But there are still some chapters left unwritten . . .
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