There were pieces of his life that have never even brushed against glimpses of anything similar to mine. How could he ever begin to understand what I’ve been through when those realities weren’t even nightmares for him? And if he couldn’t understand me, then he couldn’t love me. Wouldn’t love me.
I whipped the duvet off my body and popped out of bed, the covers strewn across the mattress where I’d been lifeless just moments ago. A moment of madness ran through me like rapid fire. I couldn’t lie there any longer, reliving that day.
The day that everyone showered my mother with sympathy over her loss, while I was shoved aside into a corner. I don’t remember anyone holding me, anyone offering me their condolences. No one was there for me. My mother was so deeply lost in her own disarray that I was sloughed to the side, a badtaste in everyone’s mouth that lingered longer than it should have.
At the age of six, I couldn’t fully understand why my dad wasn’t coming home, but I understood there was a painful explanation. People came and went, crowding around my mother, instructing me to give her space, reminding me to be good to her.
What they didn’t realize was thatIneeded someone to be good to me, too. Someone to hold me. Someone to care for me. Someone to love me.
So I did what I did best as a little girl—I drew pictures.
I drew my mom and me with two angels hovering above us; my baby brother and my father, rendered as disproportionate stick figures with wings. Two more stick figures held hands, meant to represent my mother and me. Upon presenting the drawing to cheer her up, she took the page and stared at it for what felt like an eternity.
Her expression was lifeless as she assessed the visual in front of her. Eager for any scrap of approval, I rocked on my heels and whispered, “Do you like it, Mommy?”
Without making eye contact, she took the page and crumpled it in her hands in one swift motion. The crayon drawing—the only version of reality my undeveloped brain could muster—was reduced to a wadded up piece of trash, tossed aside.
My feelings erupted all at once. “Hey! That wasn’t very nice!” I whined.
Before I could even reach for the paper, a sharp burn pooled across my cheek as the back of her hand connected with my face. Tears welled so quickly I didn’t even realize I was crying. My tiny hands reached for my face to comfort the injury as I looked at her with disbelief.
She turned away on her bed, her back to me, and words that escaped her mouth would haunt me forever.
“It should have been you.”
At the time, I didn’t grasp the weight of what that meant. But after reliving it in my mind over a million times, I knew now. I knew now what she really thought of me. I knew now that I should have gone to the store with my dad. Maybe—just maybe—our lives could have been different. Maybe she could have been different.
My dad’s last day on Earth was the last day I remember feeling any sense of belonging. His death imprinted itself on my soul. It was because of his death that I learned there were more bad people in this world than good, and that the bad ones were always the ones who survived. What was the fucking point?
I raced around my apartment, manic, desperate for the pain to leave. I stopped abruptly, gripping my matted hair and bending forward, allowing myself to expel a deep, guttural scream. I needed the pain out of my body in any form I could muster, but it refused to release.
After dragging in a shaky breath, I stumbled into the kitchen, ripping open cupboards and the fridge, searching for the vodka I’d bought.
It wasn’t there. I couldn’t remember drinking it all, but I might have. My memory slipped in and out, fractured by long gaps between moments of clarity. I moved to the bathroom, searching for the hydromorphs, knocking aside bottles, lotions, and containers.
Where the fuck were they?
I slammed the mirrored cupboard shut and punched it. The glass exploded, fragments shattering everywhere. I continued smashing the mirror in a fit of lost control until the pain permeated behind my eyes and spilled out into tears.
My body collapsed onto the floor, swallowed by a heated sea of emotions. The sob came from deep in my belly. I leaned against the wall, willing myself to regulate, willing myself to remember where the fucking pills were—anything for reprieve.
My breathing turned heavy and laboured. Tears cascaded down my face, my eyes burning. Breathe in. Draw the top line. Hold. Draw the perpendicular. Breathe out. Draw the ninety-degree line. Hold. Close the shape.
When I opened my eyes, exhaustion settled in. I took in the damage I’d caused—without control, without understanding the consequences.
The thought came again, as it had several times before. But this time, the urge was louder. Clearer. Logical.
I noticed a long shard of broken mirror and reached for it, gripping it in my palm. It fit too well. I squeezed, testing the potential for the cut, numb to the danger.
Holding it up, I stared straight at it.
It could be so easy. It could be done now.
The sharpness of the tip could slide so easily across my skin. It could slice right through my veins, arteries, ligaments, everything. It could do visceral damage. It could end everything in a matter of minutes. Maybe even less.
Placing the blade along my forearm, I allowed the coolness to neutralize against my skin. Goosebumps rose, and I inhaled sharply.
This is it. It has to happen now. It was now or never.
