I should have. That was the plan. It was a well thought out one, too. Thoroughly researched. All of my i’s dotted. My t’s crossed. Yet, I somehow failed. And believe me, it wasn’t for lack of trying.
I didn’t consider that the location I chose for my farewell wasn’t nearly remote enough for things to go off without a hitch.
Had the cut been deeper, had I bled out faster, maybe it could’ve worked. It should have. I put in some serious thought and effort here.
The campus pool closes at seven every night. The locker rooms are empty by seven-thirty. I planned everything out perfectly. I’m not kidding. I was diligent in my research. I even tracked the custodian's schedule to make sure everything was going to line up.
But what I didn’t plan, what I couldn’t possibly anticipate, washim.He was a variable I never could have seen coming. The nameless boy who had to go and ruin everything.
It took so much nerve to make that first cut. I wince thinking about it. And it took even more to make the second.
Do you know how stressful it is to slit your own wrists? I had to Google how to do it. I watched videos online that explained how long and how deep to drag the blade along my wrists. I made sure the razor blade was clean and sharp. Not that I was worried about an infection or anything, but I wanted to do itright,ya know?
I was positive it would all work out. I’ve always been a model student. I follow directions and I usually get things right the first time around, but that day, I messed up.
I take that back. I didn’t mess up anything. He did. He wasn’t supposed to be there.
No one was supposed to find me until morning when the custodian re-opened the pool. Buthewas there, andhewas the one who found me. It’d only been minutes since I’d made the cut. And thanks to his intervention, I’m still here, hanging out in the land of the living.
I huff out a breath. I’m so freaking tired. I just want to close my eyes and not wake up again. Is that really too much to ask?
I don’t know if or when I’ll try again. A part of me feels like it’s inevitable. I made the first attempt when I realized there was no other way out. Nothing has changed since.
Well, some things have, but none of them for the better. It’s not like I have a million reasons to want to stick around.
My parents watch me more, as if I'm a ticking time bomb seconds away from going off. Lucky me. If I thought I wanted more attention from my parents before, I sure as hell don’t now.
I go to therapy now, too. Twice a week. Not that it helps. I understand the reasoning behind seeing a shrink. In theory, if Iopen up, it’s supposed to help. At least, that’s what Dr. Walker, my therapist, tells me each time I see her. But to be frank, it’s a load of bull.
I don’t need to talk about what happened. Not my trauma and not my attempted suicide. I know what happened to me. I know what I did. I’m not in denial. I am very cognizant of everything I’ve been through.
I’m a realist, and talking about it won’t change anything. It still happened. I still can’t do anything about it. No one believed me before and they sure as hell aren’t going to now that we’ve added nutcase to my resume. Case closed. Time to move on.
What would really help is if everyone left me the hell alone.
It’s been a month since he-who-has-no-name came to my unrequested rescue, and in that month, I moved out of my dorm room and back home with my parents.
Not by choice, I might add, but it’s better than the alternative. Better than being committed for thirty days to make sure I’m no longer a danger to myself. I shudder at the thought. A seventy-two-hour hold was long enough to know I wouldn’t survive being locked up in there.
The psychiatrist tried to medicate me. They forced me to take mood stabilizers and antidepressants. I hated them. They made me numb, which might sound like a good thing given what I have to deal with, but it isn’t. They slowed everything down. My thoughts. My feelings. It was like walking through quicksand. I don’t really know how else to describe it.
But when I did feel, when my memories of what happened this past summer crept up on me, I couldn’t get away from them. The drugs trapped me inside my own head and I’d sink into my thoughts, unable to escape. It was like reliving my rape all over again.
I promised the ‘rents I’d stay home for one semester. Long enough for them to assure themselves I’m okay, and I’ll stickto that. I hate liars, and despite everything that's happened, I refuse to become one. But, when the semester is up, all bets are off.
If life is better by then, great. Not that I’m counting on it. But if it is, cool. I’ll roll with it. It’s not like I want to die.
But every day, it gets a little bit harder to breathe. And a new piece of me I don’t even realize exists until it’s too late withers away and dies inside me.
But, I made a promise. One semester. I can give my parents that much at least.
They didn’t ask for a head-case daughter. They’re good parents. The best I could have asked for, to be honest. Mom was a stay-at-home mom when I was younger, and growing up as an only child, I received all the love and attention a kid could possibly need.
Dad works a ton, but he’s always made time for me. He’d go to the high school football games just to watch me cheer.
They really are the best.
But they have no idea what happened this summer. And they can’t even begin to understand why I tried to kill myself.
