When I get home, I plop down onto the couch. I've been so busy running from place to place looking for a job I haven't had time to think about drugs, or liquor, or myself. It's kind of nice, to not have to fight myself every second. I guess that's why they say the best way to fight a depressive episode is to get out and go do something. In those moments though, it feels entirely impossible to even get up off the floor sometimes.
I've been home and alone for 13 minutes; I can already feel the emptiness threatening to pull me in again. Crazy how much being alone with your thoughts can take you under. I guess I'll have to add more to my list of things to do, keep myself busy. If I want to better myself, by myself, and for myself I suppose I shouldn't fly at it blind.
Groaning, I push off the couch and head back to my room to get my phone. I pull up google and type in "State assisted therapy" I read though everything, all the information, hoops I'd have to jump through, reference numbers I'd need from the hospital I almost died in. I grab a notebook off my shelf and start writing down a check list.
After I have my checklist for the therapy shit, I think about what else I'm going to need. Just so I can have some sense of accomplishment I write down 'get a job' and cross it off. It's small, but it's a good start.
My pen taps rhythmically against my thigh as I try to think of other new things I want to do. I glance over to the mirror in the corner for the first time, I see and truly understand how underweight I am. After throwing the pen onto the desk I walk over to the mirror and pull off my shirt, If I saw any of my siblings like this, I would be so concerned. I turned to the side and pulled my arm up, 4 ribs were easily seen, my collar bones stuck out so much they looked like bowls. I used to be between 165 and 170 pounds and had a pretty good muscle mass, nothing like Tyson, he's a beast but back then, I looked... healthy at least. My arms dropped to my sides, and I stared at myself, I still hate me, this is not the body I ever imagined myself having. It's actually embarrassing to see myself like this, it's scary to think about how little I ate throughout the years and when I did eat it was stuff like pizza or wills poptarts and never anything sustainable.
On my way to the bathroom, I think about the night I almost died. I had told Suzie not less than 5 hours before that I was trying, that I was getting better. How can she forgive me so easily? I shake my head and run my hand down my face, its nothing I can change now. After searching every corner and cabinet in the bathroom, I find the scale up against the wall behind the toilet. Gross.
With as little fingers as I can possibly use, I grab the old white scale and pull it out. Without looking down I step up onto it, I'm not sure I want to know. Quickly I look down.
133.
Damn. Numbers really make everything real.
The scale slides easily back behind the toilet where it belongs, I wash my hands, put my shirt back on, and sit back down at my desk. I write one more word on my list 'Eat'.
It seems simple, and for most people it probably is, but for me I have to write it on a list to remember. However, it's not just "eat" It means eat 3 sustainable meals a day, and probably snacks in between those. However, until I get money to get real food, it's just "eat"
I need a mental break; I feel so exhausted. Is this how it feels to be normal? People are just running around exhausted all day? My warm bed welcomes me as I flop onto it, not bothering to aim my head towards the pillows. Immediately all the thoughts I fight so hard to keep out come running right back to me. What makes me think I can get better? Why do I deserve to be better, and why now? I haven't let myself feel since being back, I don't want to know how I feel about failing at dying. I have a sense of happiness, I think. But I also still dread waking up every day for new reasons. I don't want to disappoint anyone, or myself. Now, the house is full of so many expectations, things I'm not sure I can meet. Suddenly, my cold, dark room feels like a prison, a prison that I used to find so much comfort in. This whole house feels like a cell, I have nowhere to go for comfort anymore. The old life I used to live is closing in on me. Every part of this house brings back a memory of why I became who I was.
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Thats Life
General FictionJace is a drug addicted, suicidal, depressed young adult. His whole life has been nothing but abuse, hatred, and loneliness. After an attempt at ending his life, he's faced with a long challenge over overcoming the addiction, and recreating himself...
