love, or the lack thereof (p. davidson)

eleven

It had been about a week and half since I last saw daylight. Being completely honest my mental health has probably been the worst it's ever fucking been.

I had blocked everything and everyone from my life. Especially the continuous texts from Pete. I was shocked he hadn't showed up knocking on my window.

I was always depressed but for the past week it's been hitting me like a fucking rock. There isn't any reason why I should be feeling this way, I just fucking did and it felt pretty shitty.

I had stayed lying in bed this past week in the dark. Eventually Megan, Claire, and Liv stopped checking up on me, assuming this would pass and I would be back to whatever fucking normal was.

I hadn't seen or talked to Pete since he dropped me off after hanging out practically all day.

I had no motivation to do anything or talk to anyone. At this point not even smoking weed was helping. My mind kept telling me I needed something stronger.

I laid in my bed staring up at the ceiling. Basically,  that being the entirety of my day for a week and half. Eventually Pete had stopped texting me. And I honestly missed the sound of my phone vibrating with each text he would. I assumed he had given up on me just like everyone else in my life had.

I didn't have motivation to draw, which many times before was the only thing that brought me any type of joy.

And to top it all off, I was supposed to be going to my weekly therapy appointment with Gretchen.

But obviously fuck that. I'm not fucking going.

Letting out a long sigh, I flipped to my side and looked out at my messy, dark room. It was fascinating what depression could do to your own bedroom.

Clothes laid all over the floor, countless water bottles were set against the window sill, and joints from the days past rested in the ashtray on my desk.

Something in me was pulling me toward the thing I needed. The thing that was stronger then the weed I had been smoking.

I slowly dragged myself out of my bed, immediately being surrounded by the cold. My body shivered as I walked over to my desk where I rummaged through each drawer until I found the two small white pills, that I have been saving "just in case" for about half a year.

Taking the pills into one of my hands, I stuffed them into my hoodie pocket and walked into the bathroom across the hall.

Opening the bathroom cabinet I found an old razor in which I took one of the small blades out from, hoping it would still work to crush the pills into powder.

Walking out of the bathroom I swiftly walked back into my bedroom, making sure I closed and locked the door behind me.

I grabbed my sketch book off of my desk and sat down on the floor, my back leaning against my bed.

Taking the two pills out of my pocket I placed them on the sketch book and used the razor to crush them into a white powder.

Once the pills were completely crushed, I lined the powder into a straight line. Well as straight as I could get it.

My breathing was heavy, I was nervous. I hadn't done this since high school. Would I regret this? Maybe. But all my mind was wanting was some sort of release.

"Fuck it." I said before placing a finger over one of my nostrils and tilting my head down to snort the white substance.

Once it was gone, and I had reached the end of the line, I brought my head back up and stared out across from me. After not doing it for so long, one hit made me go back to everything I felt when I would use to do it in a dark back alley with a bunch of other nobody's.