Going On

Noelle

“Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?”

-John Keats, Letters of John Keats

I was never going to amount to anything. I wasn't goth, or emo, or clad in studs and leather. I wasn't cute or girly, and I certainly didn't dress in flouncy dresses and colorful bows. I never managed to fit in with the confident and flirtatious popular kids, much less with the smart and scrawny 'nerdy' kids. The orchestra and choir never wanted me, and most sports teams 'lost' my name on the sign-up sheet before I could even try out. The medical club always ran out of space for me, and the robotics club had 'strict criteria' that I never seemed to meet. I never went to the big parties. Never had many friends. Never left the house other than to go to school.

I was the nobody of nobodies. I could be considered their queen. I wasn't pretty, unless you consider hand-me-down pants and thrift shop sweaters pretty. I could never get the hang of curling or straightening my hair, so my long, wavy auburn locks ended up in a bun every day. My eyes were dull and brown, the color of mud, as far as I was concerned. I wasn't involved in any sports teams, or clubs, or musical programs. One single girl was willing to talk to me, and we'd been friends since childhood. All I could do was take pictures, and who the hell cares about that?

I was on the fast track to nowhere.

Maybe that's why I tried to kill myself on my seventeenth birthday. Of course, if you asked me, I would deny that even happened.

It did happen, though. And that's how I ended up in this "Recovery Club". It sounded nice enough, like one would choose to be in it if they wanted to get their life back on track. But it wasn't a choice; I think the word club didn't suit it well. Stillwater's Recovery Club was just another place for parents to send their children for a few hours to get some peace and quiet.

That's what it was, as far as I was concerned. Another YMCA, only this place actually wanted to help us solve our problems.

Well, good luck with that.

I didn't want to go to that club--that prison. I mean, I hardly even attempted suicide! My parents simply blew this thing way out of proportion. This shouldn't have been such a big deal. I supposed if I had taken more precautions, I'd be dead, not trapped in this stupid club. I thought I took enough pills to choke a horse. It was sort of poetic--taking enough pills to kill me silently, leaving only my lifeless body to be found in a bathtub of my own blood.

But it didn't work. C'est la vie. I was going to try again until my parents forced me into Stillwater's Club for the Mentally Fucked Up.

I sighed. Shifted in my seat. Watched as my parents' old Cadillac pulled up to the Community Center.

I didn't say goodbye. By the time the vehicle came to a stop, I was already jumping out and running across the parking lot, contemplating how difficult it would be to kill myself in a suicide prevention club.