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A crowd that doesn’t present any immediate threat.
I slow down as I approach the officers and clutch the stitch in my side. “Can you open the gate? I need to leave.”
One of them gives me an odd look. “We are under strict orders to not allow any students to leave the grounds on foot.”
“Why?”
“For their safety.”
I huff, pacing back and forth as I run my fingers through my hair. “That’s bullshit. This is a peaceful protest. I’ll be fine.”
The officers stare at me like I’m the threat to public safety. “If you need to leave, someone should come pick you up in a secured vehicle.”
Tears well in my eyes. “You don’t understand. I have to get out of here.”
“Miss, if you don’t head back to class, we will call the school to send someone to escort you.”
“But it’s an emergency!” I shout. “Let me out!”
My desperation is manifesting into panic. I’m caged in like an animal, and it’s sending me into a spiral.
“If it is a real emergency, have a parent or driver come pick you up.”
This is a lost cause.
With a glance in each direction, I assess the height of the fence around the perimeter. There’s no chance in hell I can scale that without impaling myself with a wrought iron spike—which I add to my ongoing list of ways to off myself.
I turn and head back up the hill, but I’m too exhausted to run anymore. A heavy weight grips my body, and every step takes a concerted effort.
I want to curl up into a ball and fall asleep. Maybe then I’ll wake up from this nightmare that is my life.
After wandering the grounds for who knows how long, I reach the cliff at the top of the hill behind the school. The Baltic Sea stretches in all directions, endless and smooth, and a briny scent carries on the breeze and kisses my face. I peer over the edge, where a sharp drop leads to the craggy rocks far below.
My gaze lifts toward the horizon, the serene waters offering me clarity. The raging panic and desperation melt away, leaving me in a state of eerie calm.
And in this calm, enlightenment.
Depression doesn’t come from nowhere. It builds over time and feeds on a series of miserable events.
Taking stock of my own series of events, I make a mental list of Mom’s cancer, followed by her death. Of being ripped away from my home and my life and shipped overseas. Of living a life with a father I barely know.
Then there’s school and all the people in it who keep pushing me to the brink of my sanity.
A revenge porn video featuring yours truly.
And Aleksandr Kurochkin, who assaulted me with a knife and made me like it.
I’d say, given everything, my depression is justified. And when the misery becomes too much to bear, it forces one to act.
Some seek help.
Some turn to drugs or alcohol or sex to numb the pain.
Others find a more permanent solution.
I used to use sex to escape my problems, but now? Now it is the fucking problem, which starts to narrow down my options.
Depression is a sapling that grows into a tree, but the first suicidal ideation is a lightning strike. It’s jarring. It wakes you up.
