Letting Go...

Chapter 1

(before)

    There are two defining moments, I believe, that we all experience. Birth and death. In birth, we ourselves, don’t have a choice, our parents have sex, do the dirty deed and then nine months later here we are in the world, expected to just go about the rules and regulation of life. Live, be happy, go to school, fall in love, and experience pain; pain that is agonizing and happens all the time, in a simple breath you can experience the pain of an electric chair. We don’t get to decide whether we come into this world, but at least we have the choice of when we want to leave. At least sometimes. With death we have an option, the catch is that you have to make your move before the outside forces of life do. It’s all about timing really, I like to think of it as a moment of absolute clarity. The moment when you wake up and think “I’m ready.”

    Here’s the thing, I’m not happy and I can’t seem to find a way to ever be again. Maybe once upon a time I was, or at least I thought I was, but now I’m done trying. I was done with putting up a pretense and just accepting that this was it. I wouldn’t accept it  though, I was preparing for my chance to make a change. A chance to find my happiness.

   Even if it means an end.

                                        ***

   Tick, tock, tick, tock. The sound in my ear was deafening, the sound of my life running out. Every minute was torture, every breath, murder.  The agony of waiting was eating me up, drowning me in anticipation. Today was the day, I had made my decision.

   “Live a little”, my friend had told me, but how could I live when all I thought about was death? Not the natural or unnatural death, depending how you view, disease or accident; I’m talking about the death that’s premeditated, the one you accept and cause. And not just any death, but my death.

   Suicide.

   Briiiiiing…Bring….Briiiiiiiing!

   The sound of the bell startled me from my thoughts. AP World History had begun. The last history class of the year, before we went on break for three weeks. Everyone around me was in a frenzy, candy canes, Santa hats, and promises to keep in touch, surrounded me, like a tight winter coat, suffocating me.

   “Settle down, class,” the teacher, Mr. Gregorio scolded us, “the bell has rung. Get in your seats or you will be marked tardy.”

   The threat reaped no reward, nobody responded, the suffocating continued.

   “Sit down in your seats and shut it,” he roared and everything was silent, except for the shuffling of feet to seats. Everything was peaceful, the calm after the storm, the idea of death and suicide nothing more than a suggestion that would never be taken seriously.

   Mr. Gregorio continued in a calmer tone. Talking about our grades and how it was our fault that they weren’t that great. Not taking the time to acknowledge or praise  those of us who had an A in the class.

   “It’s fine with me if you want to fail the course and take it again in college, I get paid either way,” -insert your financial problems here- “ college is hard when I was your age,” -insert life story here- “ we didn’t have all the technology you have today,” -insert guilt trip here- “if I can do it, you can do it.” -insert cheesy inspiration here- and he’s done. Amazing, right?

   His college speech is over, and now he feels proud of himself for “making a change” in our lives, as the teachers here like to call it. Teachers spew such bullshit. They take the job under the idea that they are going to teach the young, but they’re actually miserable out of their fucking minds because when they look at us, they see possibility and potential. They hate that we have a chance and they don’t. If I wanted to be openly resented just for breathing, I would stay the fuck home.