This assignment.
The bucket list.
He had written things down with such ease while I racked my brain, trying to think of things normal people would write down if they were in my shoes. Sure, I chose things as if it were mewantingto do things in another life, but not this life. Not this one anymore. My time was up, and I had lived enough of it already. I was nearing the end, and for once, I felt a sense of calm. I felt okay knowing it was so close that I could taste it. Not only okay, but relieved.
His bucket list items were so typical. So typical of a rich kid. Of course he hadn’t had a pet growing up. I mean, neither did I, but that’s because my mother sucked the life out ofeverything after the accident. She had died right along with him, because whatever was left was a shell—a casing that only housed evil. Someone who no longer fucking mattered. She stopped mattering. I wasn’t sure if she ever really did, to be honest.
Hands in my pocket, the breeze tousled my already matted hair as I trudged on. I felt cold, and I wasn’t certain whether that was due to the weather or just how I felt altogether. My shoulder reared into someone else’s, and it unsteadied me. Their large, burly stance hardly budged. Something about them forced me to keep my stare forward, not wanting to engage. I needed this day to be over. I needed it to end.
Jase came to mind. Slowing my steps, I thought about the hydromorphs in my apartment. I could mix it to help add a little extra oomph to the high. Up ahead, I spotted a liquor store.
Biting the inside of my lip, my eyes wandered over the people passing me by. Would they know that I was thinking about getting fucked up? Could they sense the sick desire inside of me to be asleep until I could go the way I needed to?
I decided to keep my pace going toward the store. I would pop in quickly, buy a bottle of vodka or whatever, and get the hell out of there. I wasn’t a big drinker, but this could help me get by in the upcoming weeks. I wouldn’t go crazy—just a shot here and there to help give the pills that little bit of extra kick I needed. The dreams were getting too vivid, too real, anyway.
My hand gripped the metal door handle, and I pulled it back toward me. The suction it created with the frame made it difficult, the tension in my bicep reminding me how weak I really was. Once I flitted through the door, I made eye contact with the first bottle on the shelf. Not wasting any time, I beelined toward it, not even bothering to read the label, then made a sharp turn for the cashier.
After paying for the small bottle of vodka, I exited the store as if I were being suffocated by being inside. My anxiety had reallybeen creeping up on me at inopportune times lately, and I just wanted to be home. I stuffed the bottle in my purse and began my trek back home. I softly closed my eyes, attempting to steady my breath.
No one knew I was trying to slowly kill myself while remaining alive for eleven more weeks. No one knew I was a mess—a walking train wreck. No one knew I used to care, and love, and feel. No one knew who I really was anymore. Slowly, I realized I could be added to that list. Did I even know who I was anymore?
A tear fell down my cheek, and I stopped myself from moving forward.Am I crying?No. No.No.I don’t cry. I don’t feel anymore. I don’t allow myself the privilege of shedding tears.
So what the fuck was I shedding tears for?
I didn’t cry for myself. I didn’t cry for my shitty past. I didn’t cry for my crack-whore mother or my dead dad. I certainly didn’t cry over anxiety in a fucking store where I, an adult of legal age, could go and buy fucking alcohol.
Slumping my shoulders, I proceeded onward toward the apartment that felt like a shell of a container meant for me. It was overpriced, draining the insurance policy my dad had left behind for me, and it meant absolutely nothing. I could have lived in a fucking cardboard box and felt the same emotional attachment as I did now. I was returning to a life I didn’t want without anyone to share it with, but I didn’t have the strength in me to share it with anyone, either.
I couldn’t bear to be let down. I couldn’t bear to be hurt. I didn’t have it in me anymore. That was why I wanted to die—no,neededto die.
Another tear fell, and I wiped it away with frustration so strong that I startled a businessman walking past me, talking through his earbuds. I felt my world closing in. I didn’t fucking cry. Wiping my eyes as more tears fell, I stopped in my tracks,my shoulders vibrating with emotions I had long stuffed down into the depths of my soul. The tears fell rampant, a dam breached with no way to seal it back up. My vision blurred, breathing laboured. My trembling hands ran over my face and then through my hair. I was suffocating. This was what suffocating felt like.
I was going to die, crying in the fucking streets. I felt my way toward a building and leaned my back up against it, just enough to stabilize myself before allowing my weight to fall down onto the ground. The bricks scraped against my skin, but I was numb. Everything was numb. It all became dark.
And that’s when it dawned on me—I was having my first panic attack.
Asher
Ineeded to clear my mind. Ever since leaving the group session, all I’d thought about was her. It had been consuming me unlike anything ever had before. When I went to bed last night, all I could think about was her and how I can besupportive, as Dana put it.
I struggled to imagine how to support her through this. She was so fiery, so difficult to understand. I knew her mind was set on killing herself, yet we’d shared such a good moment. It seemed too abrupt to not mean something. Had I done or said something insensitive? I couldn’t think of anything that might have been. Before crashing, I went from angry, to sad, to confused, and back to angry again.
Shaking my head, I sat upright on my bed and decided a jog was in order. Nothing crazy—just enough to get my head straight and maybe focus on something else. Making my way downstairs, I knew my mother had gone into work early, but she’d still made breakfast for us.
Grabbing a breakfast sandwich, I gobbled it down, preparing for the task ahead. I would walk for five minutes, maybe jog for thirty seconds, and bring my heartrate back down to normal before attempting a short run again. I knew the tumour placed too much pressure on me to exert myself, but maybe I had understood the doctors wrong when they told me to take it easy.Maybe they meant I just needed to pace myself in order to keep my heart strong.
Either way, I needed this, if not for my body, then for my mental health. So, without my mother knowing, I scarfed down the sandwich, slipped on my runners that had been stored in the basement, and set off outside.
As I walked, I could feel my heart rate pick up an extra decibel. All was good and steady. One foot in front of the other, just as I did every day. It was as if my body knew I was preparing to run, getting ready to exert itself; I’d never felt my heart rate increase like it was now. I needed it to remain steady.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, pulling me out of my anxious thoughts. Reaching for it, the name lighting up my screen readAlex.
Alex:Hey man! Long time. A couple of the boys are going to the game tonight if you wanna tag along?
Hovering my thumbs over the keyboard, I wondered what to say. Attending hockey games with my friends was good for me—it made me feel normal. I always got excited to watch our university team play, but the drinking and partying that came along with it wasn’t great for me. The music alone in the arena sent my heart into slight spasms, which was about all I could handle—let alone the judgment across their faces every time I declined a pint of beer or going to the bar after the game.
Asher:Hey man. Count me in.
