Behind Blue Eyes

1

March 1st.

The bathroom tile always feels colder when you don't feel well. At the same time, it feels like a safety blanket on those occasions when you're hunched over the toilet, spilling your guts out. This particular time, though, that's not happening. My anxiety has ramped up so high that it's caused my body to almost shutdown. Chills have overtaken me. My ears are so warm, they're red. I don't know if I have the strength to do it tonight; to take my whole bottle of Luvox and swallow all 17 pills I have remaining and fall into a permanent sleep.

Last night wasn't perfect, but when is any night for that matter? My boyfriend, who I don't plan on staying with any longer, came over last night. We've been having issues, recently. He has an anger issue, and he says he's gonna go to classes to help himself with it, but I don't know if he's even looked into it.

It doesn't tuly matter if he does, I can't see myself with him too much longer. Eric has his sweet moments, but I can't envision a future where him and I are together.

He doesn't even call me "Sammy" anymore. No Sam, no babe, not even Samantha. I'm lucky just to be called "bitch". "Fucking mistake", that was my favorite. That brought me back to my childhood.

My mom, before she took herself out, was horrible to my brother and I. She called us everything under the sun. "Fucking mistakes". "Leeches". The usual stuff. She said she had hoped we would kill ourselves like she was planning on doing. Shortly after she had done so, we were put into foster care. We were only five years old. She did it while we were at a friend's house.

After just a few months in the system, we were adopted by a couple. It was painfully obvious that we were adopted. They're black and we're white. They're nothing but sweet people, but we'd often get teased about it in school. Everyone knew we were adopted.

By the time David and I graduated, I had no friends. Not even a best friend that would come over every weekend to spend the night, watch a movie, none of that. People either barely noticed me or simply hated me because it was the cool thing to do. Well, except for Jessica...

David chose to go to college. I couldn't be any happier for him. As for me, I chose to pursue various odd jobs after High School. I worked at a pizza place for six months. I quit after a guy threatened to assault and kill me because his pizza was two minutes late. I then stocked shelves at my local library for another six months, but left when the library shut down.

As I was three months away from 20, I wanted to try something new. I always wanted to stand out in a certain way, so I went and pursued acting. After auditioning for a month, I got a small role in a local theater production of "Batman: The Musical". I was Catwoman and had two scenes. No musical numbers, though. It was a decent show and some of the right people saw my performance and liked me enough to sign me to an agency.

The agency wasn't huge or anything, but it was enough to help me get my foot in the door. They even helped me film an audition for "Saturday Night Live". I didn't make it, but have been put on a callback list in case anything happens.

But no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, this depression and it's demonic effects cannot let go of me. It started seeping in when I was younger. David and our parents have been trying their best to get me the help I need, but nothing's working. At night, sometimes, I see things that others can't. Hallucinations. Sometimes, they'll be of something specific, other times it'll be like dark red or black paint seeping from the walls.

Of course, I've been perscribed medicine to help fight this, but it only works when it feels like working. My nightmares receed whenever I take it. They're nothing specific, but they still insist on sticking around no matter what.

And that brings us here. I have lived with these problems for way too long. I don't feel as if I can go on anymore. Sure, I can numb the pain with cut up Xanax and alcohol, as I tend to do, but that's only temporary.

I once heard someone say that suicide is a permanent soultion to a temporary problem. That may be true to some, but my problems have been lurking for my entire life.

My hands feel so cold. They're shaking, too. I reach for the pill bottle; my hands shaking so badly that the bottle sounds like a rattle. I force my other hand over the lid and twist it off. The lid hits the ground and it sounds louder than it should. I hold my right hand out to spill the pills onto, but my left isn't co-operating. It's like my subconcious is subtly telling me not to go through with it.

After what seems like minutes of nothing happening, the shaking in my hand increases with such force that I can't take it anymore. I dump all of the pills left in the bottle in the trash can next to the toilet and throw the empty bottle up against the wall. I'm beyond frustrated. I was so close to finally doing it and I pussied out. My mom was right after all.

Feeling overwhelemed, I pull my knees to my chest and lay down on my side. Tears start to stream. It feels good to let this all out, but it wasn't how I wanted tonight to go.

After a few minutes, I pick myself up and shut the bathroom light off. Maybe another day.

I nestle into my bed after making sure everything is in it's place and everything that's off needs to be. I pull over my sheets, comforter and heated blanket. That usually helps calm me.

I reach over and grab my phone. It's only less than a month before I turn 21. I open my calander and scroll to March 31st. My birthday. Maybe another day, too. I open the day and hit "create event". All I write is "The End..." I know it's morbid, but it's what's flowing through my mind at this point. Hopefully, I can get better before then. But that's all I have to hold onto: hope.

I set my phone on my nightstand. My room is engulfed in darkness. I shut my eyes and drift, somewhat, peacefully into a deep sleep.