Dear World, this is the story of how everything started and ended. This is the story of how I tried to live but, failed. This is the short version of the story that narrates my suicide. I waited eight days before I did it. There are eight reasons wh...
Have you ever been so excited for an event that your brain won't allow you to rest the night before, keeping you awake, playing out possible outcomes for the event? That's the predicament that I find myself in at this moment. Unlike every other time, I look forward to what Monday can bring. Monday can bring something pleasant this time because I refuse to permit my last days on this planet to be filled with the same emotions as before. This time, things will change for the better.
I got dressed, went to school, and nothing changed. I was still the invisible mockingbird at the back of the class, receiving the looks of shame and pity thrown my way any time someone would walk into class, alone. I was still the quiet girl. I was still hurting when I got home. But, there was one difference, I walked into the house, not bothering to hide the sadness and nothingness that was leaking from my pores.
Normally, I try to put on a performance for my mother. I try to be overbearingly joyous, trying to make my mother feel the opposite of how I feel. I do this because I know I can't tell her how I feel. I've tried to confide in her before; I found no comfort in her words. She discounted how I felt, told me to get over it because that isn't how the world works, and moved on like it was nothing. I guess it meant nothing to her but, it meant the world to me. Sometimes, I feel like I'm Spongebob getting ready for the day. There are those episodes of Spongebob when he's searching through his medicine cabinet, considering all the faces and emotions that he can put on. As always, he picks the dominating smiley face.
But, Monday, I walk into the house, not caring to mask the emotions I felt. I was exhausted from all the effort I had put into building the wall that took years to finish. I desired for her to see that I just wanted to disappear and never come back. I wanted her to notice the raging nothingness and sadness that I felt all throughout the day.
I walked into the house; she didn't care. But, I couldn't bring myself to hold that against her. It wasn't her responsibility to coddle me nor was it her responsibility to inquire about my life. She did the best she could; her best just wasn't enough to salvage my life. Deep down, I wanted her to tease me with sweet nothings, with false promises of a better future, with homemade cookies and a glass of cold milk. But, I knew she couldn't do that.
She had to prepare me for the future and that was the path she chose to walk. Because of her, I have learned how to control the various temptations that push me to lose myself. She taught me that I am the only person that governs my destiny and that the world can't make the tough decisions that will lead to me living a productive life. I am eternally grateful for the way she raised me, because of her, I am strong.
Growing up, I was never the crown jewel when it came to dealing with my emotions. I was the kid that was louder than everyone else, trying to make everyone believe that everything was fine. But, in reality, I wasn't fine. No, I was drowning in a wave of nothingness. Every day I was allowing the anger to bubble within my soul, building a damn which was now overflowing. I made myself into a combustible monster; I became something I fear while I was attempting to protect the people I care most about. If only I could turn back the clock; I wouldn't. I wouldn't risk harming someone innocent for my own comfortability.
It's possible that I was destined to conceal myself from the rest of society. I was destined to put myself on the back burner, I was meant to live in fear so that others can live their lives with no care in the world. I give my soul, my happiness, my everything. People take the life out of me and they don't perceive it. They don't regard the lifelessness in my eyes when I am alone. No one pays attention to the pain that ripples through my body.
I dragged myself into bed that night and cried myself into oblivion. My day at school consisted of me walking through the halls, my fingers nervously picking at the hem of my shirt, my head held down, trying to avoid eye contact with the people that would pass by. My day was filled with anxiety, anxiety that is always weighing me down to the point that I feel nothing.
I hate feeling nothing. It makes me feel like one of those monsters that used to hide underneath my bed. It makes me feel like I'm not a real person like I'm a robot surrounded by humans that can express themselves in ways that I never can ( I should say could). I can't do what other people do; I can't connect with someone on a deeper level, no matter how many attempts I have made. At this point, I've point given up hope that someone could/would love a person like me. Who could ever love someone as disgusting as myself?
As I cry, my body shakes with anger and fear. Anger towards myself, anger towards the fact that I still feel nothing despite giving everything to feel something, anger towards him for what he did to me when I went to visit him, anger towards my peers and their judgments that drive me made. I can feel the anger within my mind but, in my soul, I can't feel anything. I feel like a broken record playing the same song, over and over. I'm fearful because I know that I won't always be able to control that monster. I'm afraid that I'll snap and end it all without telling my mother and papi how much I love and adore them.
Every night, my will breaks a little more. It's ironic that I feel all these emotions yet, nothing at the same time. I don't know which is worse; drowning from the flood or dying from the drought. I lay there, coerced into feeling nothing, despite wanting to feel everything. I guess that's why I started to slice my skin; I wanted to feel something other than nothing and (as bad as it may seem) cutting helped me feel something for the first time: pain.
The pain that I felt became my saving grace. It was my guilty pleasure because I knew that, no matter how bad or good or tolerable my day was, I could always cut at night and feel the pain replace the nothing. The cutting made me feel normal. One cut on my wrist made me smile brighter than the sun. Cutting on my thighs helped me destroy the thing that I hate; myself. Long sleeves in the winter and short sleeve in the summer. I knew when to stop cutting so that the scars could heal before anyone noticed. I was good at hiding it.
Soon, cutting wasn't enough to replace the nothing that occupied my body. That voice gradually became louder each and every day, loud enough to the point that I couldn't ignore it any longer. Cutting no longer gave me gratification. It hurt me to know that my only escape from the nothing was gone.
So, the cutting started when I was eleven. It ended three months ago.
This is reason #3. Emotions.
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Hai, I just wanted to keep reminding everyone that this book is full of triggers. It only becomes more detailed as it goes. I hope you're enjoying the book so far.
