When It All Falls Down

Prologue

I was seven when I tried to take my life for the first time. 

I remember it vividly, every emotion, every sharp sting of pain shooting through my body as I sunk my head beneath the surface. I hid from the rest of the world by substituting oxygen for water. A world I didn't want to face anymore. I felt so tired. I wasn't sure if it was the sadness or bathwater that drained through me rather than skating over my skin. It traveled through every cell to reach the ground. 

              I tried it again three months later.

Both times were failed attempts, proving that I was as weak as I felt. My mother didn't look at it that way. Running her fingers through my hair, she repeated words such as strong tough loved. Words I tried to feel for so long. Words I failed to feel for too long. I can't remember much of my childhood. The colorful side. The one with smiles and wide eyes. Every memory seemed to be replaced with sheer tiredness falling like a veil over my skin, grey and cold. I remember it happening slowly and steadily, crumbling inside me, falling like drops of rain, clearing the hidden parts of my skin. 

Everyone has a floor, a rock bottom. I hit mine at a young age and never seemed to be able to get back up. Every day has been another step up the later that is made of the thinnest wood you could think of. One second too long, one wrong move and it breaks.  

Through the years, the sadness remained, but it wasn't raw anymore – now it was empty unhappiness - the kind that wouldn't easily lift. I didn't push myself too far again. I remained inside my small comfort zone, cooped up in my bedroom, staring at the ceiling and when I felt a burst of energy I turned my body to stare at the wall beside me. 

I started putting my energy into working out at first. As hard as it was I dragged my ass out the door for some endorphin-raising exercise. I guess it was a form of self-medication. A healthy coping strategy I guess.

I quickly discovered I held on to a rhythm, a stable agenda best. I put everything I had into something and forgot about the rest of the world. It began as a healthy substitute. It didn't last long until I sought comfort in other ways. 

The bar is hundreds of conversations told in obnoxious voices, all of them competing with the booming rock music that dominates the atmosphere. The whiskey is amber and brings a familiar calmness to my soul. My throat burned with every sip I took and I allowed myself to get lost in the feeling. I closed my eyes, I am one of many in the room, full of interesting things to see, to touch to feel.  To save my eyes from the flashing white lights around me and hot bodies pressing against each other I narrow them until they are almost shut, and all the while all my heart can do is beat warm blood around my veins in a hope that this careless feeling will never end. 

I feel my lips uncontrollably move into something resembling a smile and I sway back and forth on the barstool. People around must think I'm a creep. A freak. I'm too untroubled to care. I order another one and ignore the bartenders' hesitance in accepting the dollars in my hand. 

I'm untied. Untethered. 

I move to stand and feel hands wrap around my back to pull me into warmness. I sway and laugh and sing. At least my heart does. Every ounce of pain I felt an hour ago has vanished into thin air. If I could live here forever, at this very moment I would. There's so much sweat on my skin and not all of it's mine. My feet are unsteady, my hands move in the air and my body moving like an uncoiling rope, eyes on fire. 

An hour later, I had burst through the doors waving goodbye to the frowning servers and stepping into the artificial glow of street lamps. Staggering, I failed to hail a taxi and decided it would be best anyway to walk home. I didn't live too far and although I wasn't sure which way to go I was persistent to find my way back.