It Hurts

Suicide

Josephine was facing the world with the thought in mind that she was the only person facing these types of problems. Groomed to the idea that mental illness is not real, crazy became the word to describe her.

No one wakes up one day with death on their mind unless they are crazy. Just like me.

At the ripe age of seventeen, Josephine faced each day of her junior year with fear of going home, wishing to run away, in any way possible.

Driving down roads, across bridges, with only crashes in mind.

Yet paying attention in class was her least favorite activity. Instead, she wrote in her baby blue diary that her mom bought her when she was ten. Only recently has she picked up this hobby, previously resorting to self-inflicted pain.

Listening to lectures about weapons not being allowed on any school campus, yet when I see a fork, I know it can do as much damage as a knife.

As Ms. Hill, the chemistry teacher, calls on a student, Josephine looks up, captivated at her newest impulsion.

Imagine a man, or woman I guess, with a fork in their neck. Although the public school system only provides plastic forks, we are allowed to bring our own Utensils.

Her vivid imagination played clips in her mind, detailing the horrors that float through the air.

A metal can could be easily cut into strips. Each strip is sharper than a knife. Each can could make six at least, enough to bind someone's hands, easily. The mason jars in science where miniature ecosystems are formed; toss them on the floor and the ultimate self-harm blade is made.

But these words never made it past her paper and paper.

Pencils can be sharper than any of these items. If lucky, maybe a pen could do the job.

To help make Josephine feel sane, she imagined everyone in this room thought the same way she did. As the intercom makes its yearly announcement about the lahar, Josephine dreads the day to come.

Maybe a person gets excited when the lahar siren blows. But little do they know, it was just for practice. Once a month our hearts start pounding, excitement and fear fill the air. Some of us ache for the volcano next door to blow mid-class. "Get it over with" we say. We will all die one day, anyway.

Never knowing what to truly think about the world in front of her, Josephine tried to find ways to escape it, to escape the harsh reality of living on this planet, in this body, with this mind.

I believe very few people think like me. Suicide is usually painless, right? Gunshot to the head, hung by a bed sheet, jumped from a bridge. Sometimes into oncoming traffic.

Cars flitter through her mind; red family cars and neon green sports cars.

The crazy ones lay in rivers with rocks weighing them down.

The fun ones set themselves on fire, dancing within the flames.

The mentally ill suicidal freaks usually kill others, so they don't have to be alone.

The darkest memories of her mind would resurface upon the beginning of these thoughts.

But me? I want to be alone. I want it to be painful. Carve your words into every inch of my skin, blood spelling it out along the cold grass. Worthless. Ugly. Unlovable. Useless. Mental.

As if he was there now, yelling names at her, Josephine could feel his breath upon her face. The lukewarm flow of heat coming from above pushed her hair back in every wrong way possible. Her fear dismissed itself as the teacher attempted to call on her. Josephine was not one for answering questions when prompted by her teachers or counselors. She listened to two people and even then... were they even real? Was any of it real?