Solid Ground

"But I lay down....
I feel safe and sound on solid ground."
-Tripp Lee

Flick, flick.

She wished she didn't exist.

That's why every day, she waited, longed for something to change, even when it didn't.

She always plastered a smile on her face and tried. Tried to be perfect, tried to be compliant, tried to be what she'd been taught to be- good.

Only that got her nowhere, so she isolated....

And nobody cared.

They all drifted away, like she'd always known they would. To them, she was nothing more than a nuisance, a bother to the people around her.

So she wallowed.

In men and marijuana, consuming both until her lungs consumed all their remnants and made her high again, up and down on the ride of life, waiting for the next crash to begin.

She was numb.

Filled with repressed emotions she swallowed with the pills, all chugged down with cheap liquor, burning her throat until only happier times existed, and she could relive the days she'd actually mattered to people.

Back then, she'd stuffed herself into odd outfits, a wrinkled shirt, a long maxi skirt, forcing herself to get up and do something.

She'd taken knives to her skin and then blurred the ugly away with her tears. Burnt her thighs and her stomach, sometimes her arms if she was quick enough.

She'd cut her hair away, no longer poofy now that it was so short and easily covered by her wig, masking her so well she almost seemed strong.

Normal.

But normalcy was a lie.

That's why she'd bounced from mental institution to mental institution, watching her parents pay exorbitant fees in hopes that the happy little girl they'd lost would come back to them.

The last time she'd been admitted, her parents hadn't seemed to care. They didn't have much hope anymore. Not when she was in and out of rehab, screaming and crying, throwing things, vomiting and whispering to herself, murmuring strange things even when they were around.

They had every right to give up on her.

She was a screw up. The girl who'd ruined Daddy's perfect image in the middle of his campaign.

She'd lied. She'd worn the too tight dress at fifteen and wandered over to some party. Snuck out without their permission and against all her friend's warnings.

She'd stupidly taken whatever drink anyone handed her and let the music take her elsewhere.

By the time she'd come to, hurting inside and out, she was flinching because of the rape kit, sobbing her eyes out between the STD panels and the questioning down at the station, wincing as she took plan B pills with water, not really knowing what it all meant.

Never truly knowing what it all was.

Her photos were plastered all over the local news, eyes fluttered open and shut as she smiled to herself half-dressed, surrounded by guys she didn't even know. Guys she couldn't even name.

Her father couldn't even look at her.

Her classmates called her names. Whore, slut, idiot. Told her she knew what she was doing. Commented on the way she was dressed. Everybody she'd been asking for it, practically begging for it to happen.

They said she smiled so often because it was casual for her, something she did daily.

Flick, flick, flick...

But she remembered.

No matter how much she wanted to forget, she remembered the brutal way they handled her. How she'd thrashed and screamed and pleaded as they forced her, created evil, heinous memories until they'd finally worn her down, leaving her with residue, with a feeling she couldn't wash away no matter how many hours she spent scrubbing and crying.

It stuck to her subconscious like glue, tormented her like she'd committed the sin while they all moved on, married, successful and happy.

Everyone told her to let it go, to just accept it, move on.

But every night, the memories grew stronger, more vivid as they replayed over and over again in her sleep, in her waking life, in every corner she turned, every loud noise she heard.

Not even substances made her forget, the burns and bruises just reminders.

She was broken.

Too far gone to be repaired.

She'd only wanted to be prettier, to be loved and accepted so that someone would care.

But nobody ever did. No one ever really tried.

She knew the truth. Even when they said they were busy, that they were working, that they would call her back later....

She knew they only checked on her out of obligation, to see the poor addict girl like some spectacle at a zoo, to treat her like an object to be ogled at.

But people got bored after so long, not caring to see the same act every few weeks.

And she grew bored of the same conversations, not able to see the light they were desperately trying to convince her to see.

She was tired of pretending it existed.

It had been fifteen years. Fifteen years since she'd been happy.

Back then, she'd twirled in pretty dresses and laid in the grass, excitedly sharing her dreams with anyone who would listen.

She'd planned on having a wonderful adulthood. One where she was satisfied with life, happy, in love, beautiful.

Perfect.

She'd been a tiny, glorious beacon, illuminating the world with all her light.

And now, she was nothing more than a waste of space, stumbling to the top of the tall skyscraper, wondering how long it would take to be free from its ledge.

She wondered if anyone would care she was missing, if anyone would believe the words in her letter.

She wondered if they'd recognize her genuity when she apologized for not being sorry anymore.

Because she truly was sorry.

Flick, flick....

Her funeral wouldn't be crowded.

Who would bother to show up?

Who would read the tombstone of Jazmine Dubois and think, "Wow, things really aren't the same without her. I miss her."

She glanced down, then sighed, lifting her head.

How would they even know it was her?

She'd thrown her suspended driver's license on the floor of some bar, making sure it would be difficult to identify her.

Despite everything, she hoped her parents would never know what she'd done.

She hoped nobody would.

Here, with the wind blowing through what was left of her hair, just her and the stillness of the calm night sky, facing the quiet of the empty streets of the city, she dropped her ringing phone and counted.

When she reached twenty-five, she heard something slam onto the pavement somewhere far beneath her feet.

It wasn't funny, but she laughed hysterically anyway. She threw her head back, the blood seeping from her wrists making it even funnier somehow, more comedic than sad.

More joyous than depressing.

Now, she didn't have to worry about people judging her, telling her to quit whining and be grateful.

She could be at peace without her father breathing down her neck, her mother sending people to spy on her, pretending to care for her when they only wanted to know what had happened to the old her.

They'd promised her.

They'd all promised her that things would get better when they just hadn't.

But none of that mattered anymore.

All she needed was one more cut, one more incision, and it would all end shortly after that.

If she dug the blade just right, pressed it right through the vein on her wrist until it punctured....

Flick.....

The pain felt so good, so calming.

She felt free, relieved there would be no more pain, no more suffering.

She leaned forward, enough to float away instantly, away from all the things she couldn't escape from with breath in her lungs.

She held in all the air, refusing to inhale as tears finally filled her eyes.

This time, she wouldn't stop herself.

This time, would finally be her last time.

She focused on the horizon, lifting each finger one by one, until she leaned forward and fell faster than she'd even thought possible.

The pain shot through her, intense and then fleeting, until the light was white and then dark, peaceful.

It was easier to let go than she'd thought it would be.

Her life hadn't flashed before her eyes, and for that she was grateful. She'd only wanted the pain to stop. And in a way, it finally had.

She heard the screams, heard the pleading from a woman she didn't know, urging for someone to help.

She succumbed to it and focused on the calm she felt, floating somewhere else, somewhere foreign to her, the bad forgotten.

Everyone was better off without her to worry about.

And, more importantly....

So was she.
_________________________

September is National Suicide Awareness Month.

This is NOT a piece that justifies suicide, just a piece that delves into the thought process.

If you or someone you know is struggling or in a crisis, help is always available.

Call or text 988 or chat 988lifeline.org to reach the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.