"Hell week" is what students call the week before final exams. Most of the time it's an exaggeration. But it does come true for the unfortunate few who have to make up the entirety of a semester due to their lack of time management. I found myself an accidental member of that club. In addition to my history and calculus final exams, I had an essay and portfolio due for English and French horn proficiency performances. To say I was stressed would be a vast understatement. And of course my depression did an atrociously fantastic job of making me procrastinate until it was basically too late.
I was burning the midnight oil one night, wracking my brain for ideas for my final essay. The prompt was Personal Statements: an opportunity for students to relate their struggles and hardships with the struggles and hardships occurring in "the real world." Not surprisingly I was having a particularly difficult time trying to apply my depressed high school self to the inconceivable tragedies happening across the planet.
I guess my dad had seen the light from my room and checked in at around 2 in the morning.
"What are you still doing up?" he hissed from the crack of the opened door.
I sighed frustratedly. "I'm trying to work on this stupid essay, it's due on Friday."
"You just started!?" he demanded in disbelief. "Kelsey, it's already Wednesday! Why did you put it off for so long?"
I clenched my jaw and lied, "I've been studying for my other finals." In reality I had been studying my next battle move in Vikings of the North.
He glared at me. "Well, you need to go to sleep, it's way past bedtime."
I flipped my middle finger at the door that was now closed in his absence. Fuck him for thinking I'm incapable of doing this essay, I thought angrily. My bruised pride was poorly hiding the fact that I was absolutely terrified I wouldn't be able to submit it without help. It felt far too late, though, to discuss my essay- or lack of one- with my teacher. Plus there was no way I was going to admit I was struggling as significantly as I was.
Unfortunately, things didn't go as expected. During the last half hour of English class, when everybody was free to work on their essays, my teacher pulled me aside into the hallway, where my counselor was waiting. My heart started hammering heavily in my chest. This can't be good. Both women stared condescendingly down at me for what felt like hours.
My counselor finally broke the silence. "Kelsey, your father emailed us about the essay you have for English." She paused to watch my reaction. "Is everything alright? It sounds like you need some help with this."
The apprehension I felt quickly seared into a blazing rage. My father had emailed both the school counselor and my English teacher, without my consent or knowledge? I clenched my fists, feeling the sting of nails digging into skin.
"He tells us you only started this morning," Mrs. Hightower prompted. "This is a 5 page minimum essay, Kelsey. Have you at least finished your portfolio?"
My entire face was scorching red hot at this point. I was beyond humiliated. The painstakingly constructed façade of being the quiet yet obedient student who always aced her assignments had been violently shattered. I was seething and holding back tears but managed to keep a neutral tone of voice.
"Yes, I finished the portfolio," I replied timidly. I wasn't lying; the portfolio was done, albeit rather badly.
"Okay..." Mrs. Hightower continued, clearly doubtful of my response. "So what about your essay? Are you going to need extra time for it?"
"No." I shook my head forcefully. Each day an assignment is late in her class incurs a 10% deduction in the overall grade. "I have my thesis and analysis, just haven't typed it all out yet," I added falsely.
They both eyed me for a moment. I had never wanted to physically run away so badly before in my life.
"Okay Kelsey, just let us know if you need any guidance." My counselor gave me an awkward pat of dismissal on the shoulder before letting me return to class.
I slowly lowered myself back into my seat, nearly certain I was about to have a heart attack. It felt like I had been on the stand defending a case with the slimmest chance of winning to the devil himself. I pretended to type some things onto my laptop but had completely dissociated from my surroundings. Not 5 minutes ago I felt like I could've strangled my dad, I was so furious.
Now I couldn't even stop my hands from shaking. It was so unnecessary and patronizing for him to have contacted my educators without even taking a moment to consider talking to me first. The thought of having to face my dad later that day made me want to disappear forever.
The rest of the day felt surreal as I kept replaying what had happened in my head. Mrs. Hightower must think I'm so stupid and pathetic. I was absolutely convinced. I'm just some worthless student she wouldn't hesitate to fail. I felt hot tears filling my eyes during band rehearsal and fought valiantly to keep them from falling.
Pettiness is not something I usually resort to but blatantly ignoring my dad during the car ride home was the only thing that made me feel better. Until, at least, he questioned me about the essay again.
I blew up at him. "Can you stop bugging me about this stupid fucking essay?" I exclaimed. "I can't believe you emailed my teacher, what is your problem?"
"Language!" he snapped. "And you need the help. Starting an essay less than two days before the deadline, what were you thinking?"
I slammed the car door and hightailed it for my room, screaming over my shoulder, "Just leave me alone!" before blockading my door to keep him from coming in.
I sank down onto the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. I had never experienced suicidal thoughts before but that was the first time I felt an overwhelmingly strong urge to end my life. Hell week could not be living up to its name more. I was hurting, so incredibly much. The word miserable didn't even suffice in describing how I was feeling. Any hope of me making it successfully through the rest of the school year- even the rest of this semester- seemed like a distant daydream.
The flood of anguish from my mental breakdown evaporated, leaving behind the cavernous emptiness I had become so familiar with. I don't know how long I stayed there on the floor but I would've continued to had it not been for my legs complaining in the tingly discomfort of prolonged nerve compression. I dragged myself to my feet and trudged to my bed.
Tubs was already there, cat-loafed on my covers. He greeted me with a purr. I held him close to my chest as he licked my face, seeming to sense I was distraught. There wasn't an ounce of energy left in me to do school work. I buried myself under my covers, my pillow faithfully absorbing more tears, and slipped into a troubled sleep.

YOU ARE READING
Of Pixels and Dying
General FictionWhat do you do when you're a burnt out teenager struggling with depression, emotional abuse, and surrounded by perfect yet toxic peers? Kelsey Oliviera finds solace in the online world of gaming and internet friends. Her miserable reality is allevia...