Fight or Flight

*TRIGGER WARNING*
Please don't read if you are sensitive to mentions of depression, suicide or self harm. Read at your own risk.

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Eyes closed, wind racing through my hair as my clothes flap around me. I approach the ledge, a smile making its way onto my face.

Suddenly, my mind races back to when I was a child.

I see my mum bending down, looking straight into my eyes with one of those smiles that screams 'love'. She is laughing. Clearly healthy.

Then the scene changes, going fuzzy for a few seconds before resting on a sadder scene. I see my mother again. But this time, her smile is different. It is one of someone who is trying to appear stronger than she is. And I look on the scene in much the same way as I did almost 8 years ago.

My eyes dance over the numerous tubes entering and exiting the once healthy woman's body as she sits up in a hospital bed, smiling that brave smile. My father stands behind me, wearing much the same smile, his hand planted firmly on my shoulder.

The scene changes again. My mother is nowhere in sight yet well I know that she is lying, not twenty metres away from me, in a wooden box nailed shut. Again my father is next to me, the smile gone and instead replaced with a glare of pure misery, regret and loathing as he looks at the box. His hand again on my shoulder, he looks down at me, the kindly glance he once sent my way, gone.

Again, this scene dissolves as another one forms in front of my eyes. A couple years later. I am on the floor, tears streaming down my face as I look up at a man I once called my father. But this was not the same man who used to pat my head and give me money for the ice cream man. That man disappeared the same day my mother's heart monitor rang out with that long, continuous tone.

He raises a hand and brings it across my cheek. And again. And again. Despite the sound being distorted, I make out the words "mistake" and "all your fault" coming from the man's lips as each strike makes contact with my skin.

Then I am in my bedroom. Door locked. Tears cascading down my face, I take a small screwdriver and patiently unscrew the sharpener I extracted from my pencil case earlier that day. After several seconds, the screw and sharpener come away, the blade falling gracefully to my lap. I pick it up and grasp it between my thumb and first two fingers.

Then I press the small blade to my wrist. I drag it over the skin, making a slit in the once smooth flesh. I hiss with the pain, but I know it's worth it. That's when it hits me. The relief. All the emotions I have been keeping inside me for the last few years suddenly cascade out. And I feel a smile creep onto my lips as I watch the blood rise, forming a red, dotted line at the surface. Then it drips down, staining the carpet. But I don't care.

The scene changes once more and I find myself treading the laboriously long corridors of my school. I shrink away from the other children, pressing myself against the wall as I scratch at my wrists.

Every step feels as if I'm being weighed down by a ten tonne weight. Every breath is pained. The weight also pressing down on my chest as I gasp for oxygen. I sigh a deep sigh and find myself sinking to the floor as the words 'I give up' ring through my head.

Then that brings me to where I am now. 16 years old. Standing at the top of this 13 story building, wondering whether or not I should jump.

If it's not already clear to you by now, this is not a happy story. This is not a fairy tale. This is real life. Not everyone gets a happy ending. And now I have two choices. Fight or flight.

Which should it be?

Fight my demons or fly far away from here. You tell me.

It's not always the easiest choice that is the best one. But when every day is an obstacle and you live purely to go to sleep again every evening, what is there to fight for? When every day is stretched laboriously long and the only way you get through it is by slicing into your own skin on a daily basis, who wouldn't fly?

So which is it, fight or flight?