FRAGILE TIMES;;
Took what I could take until the time that I got caught, cried for help, all because I was feeling lost.
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A week and half had passed in a blur. I’d spent most of the two weeks avoiding Patrick and Manderson, not eating but still purging, trying to get my grades up, and taking too many sleeping pills. Both the boys had made several attempts to contact me, whether it was via text or face - to - face interaction. I mostly just walked passed them, pretending I didn’t know them. I had barely eaten recently, but I was still throwing up at least once a day. The whole blood and spit ordeal had really only gotten worse, but I didn’t care about my body enough to stop. I had managed to get my stats grade up to a C, which I was actually pretty proud of, considering the fact that I couldn’t do math for shit. I took sleeping pills once I got back from my last class every afternoon and usually slept from that afternoon until late the next morning. Carly and Taylor knew there was something weird going on, but neither of them knew what to say, so the subject went untouched.
I was finally down to my last half week of school. All I needed to do was take my finals and get out. Unfortunately, I was taking a bullshit child psychology class that only me and a whopping three other kids were taking. It was the last final on the last day, which meant I had to go back home on the train alone on Friday.
My finals on the first day were easy -- all I had was English and biology, which weren’t very difficult classes for me. I hoped and prayed that I’d do well enough that I wouldn’t fail out of my first semester of college. I couldn’t let this first year be a wash.
The next day, I started to feel even worse than normal. My skin felt too tight on me and I was cutting constantly in hopes of clawing myself out. There were now a variety of other words etched into my skin. Along with FAT, there was also STUPID, UGLY, and IMPERFECT. It was next to impossible to carve the letters in, but I was so angry and sick that I didn’t care how unintelligible they were -- they just needed to be in my skin. The cuts burned and itched all through my Spanish and history finals, and I now had cuts all over my thighs and calves. I felt lightheaded and panicky all day, and even though I took a shitload of sleeping pills, I constantly woke up through the night.
When I woke up the next morning, my final day of my first semester, I started crying. I’d been sleeping so much and avoiding my head that I hadn’t released my feelings like normal. I started shaking and sobbing uncontrollably. I didn’t want to wake Carly up, so I went into the study where I could be alone. The sobbing continued, ultimately leading me to a state of panic and dread. My heart was racing in my chest, slamming into my ribcage repeatedly, and my fingers began to tingle and grew numb. My breathing became uneven, and I was breathing in and out so heavily and so fast that I was lightheaded. I couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t, and life became too much to handle. I wanted to be dead, but this was it. One more final, I told myself. One more final and you’re done; you’re home. It took several minutes to return myself to a state of near - peace, but my lungs still burnt and my head still ached. Going back to sleep was out of the question at this point, and I knew Taylor and Carly would be up soon, so I exited our dorm to go for a walk.
The two of them were lucky; they both had the first final that day for analytical chem or something else stupid. I had no idea what I wanted to pursue in life anymore, but my counselor had somehow persuaded me to take child psychology; if I didn’t take it, the class would have been considered too small and the other kids in it would have to drop.
I tried to relax a bit on my wall, but it was to little avail. I could not flip a switch; I could not escape the panic. I knew I had just hours until I went home, and I should really be packing, but how was I supposed to focus on anything when I only wanted to be dead? I felt so annoyed, and I just wanted to tear my skin to shreds, but I didn’t think there was any room left on my legs, and I couldn’t afford to cut on my arms -- if my parents knew what was really happening, that was it -- I’d have to go to community college. And I’d really rather be dead than attend a year of community college.
It began to snow heavily again, and I didn’t want to get stuck in the snow while wearing Converse. I turned and made my way back to the dorm, trudging through the thin layer of snow.
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When I returned, both girls were gone, and their bags were packed set out neatly on their beds. I still couldn’t bring myself to pack my suitcase, so I wasted a while on Tumblr. When the girls returned, they said their goodbyes to each other and me before leaving. Carly had made cards for each of us; they were quite charming really. The front had a Christmas tree she’d constructed herself out of felt and evergreen tree leaves. On the inside, she wished us a merry Christmas.
It was cute. Cute, but not enough. It was not enough to make me want to live through the holidays. It wasn’t enough to make me want to live through the rest of the school year. I felt depressed, hopeless, and helpless. I had just an hour until my final, and I hoped I could make it through.
I left eventually and went to science building across the campus. The four of us were placed in separated corners of the room, making it impossible to cheat. I grew more annoyed and irritated, which I didn’t even know was possible at this point. I tried my best to focus, though, and bubbled in the answers to best of my ability. I supposed that was the one good thing about bullshit classes; they had bullshit multiple choice finals to match.
As I walked back to my dorm, I assumed I’d be calm, finally -- after all, I was finished. There was nothing left to be scared or nervous or stressed out about. Still, my heart was racing and my mind was moving too fast.
I just needed to pack. I just needed to focus and pack up my suitcase. I started tossing in clothes and assorted other items I needed to bring back home.
I threw another shirt into my suitcase and screamed as loud as I could. All the other students in the dorm had left several hours before, so by now there was no one to hear me.
I found my full bottle of sleeping pills. I had brought two bottles, just in case the first one ran out by some chance. I opened up the bottle and took my time, carefully pressing the cap and slowly untwisting it. I pulled off the seal, letting the seconds tick by. I finally pulled out the cotton ball on the top, protecting all the pills inside.
This wasn’t how my life was supposed to end. No. No, I was supposed to live a long and full life, things were supposed to change, I was supposed to be happy. I was supposed to go home and see my family and I have a fun winter break. I was supposed to go sledding and drink hot chocolate and go ice skating and go to church on Christmas morning and be happy and okay with my life. I was supposed to see my cousins and talk with them and be friends with Brendan again and have a cousin sleepover. I was supposed to relax and recover and come back to school stronger than before. I was supposed to reconnect with Manderson and Patrick and tell them that I was recovering all by myself and that I didn’t starve or purge anymore.
I tried to distract myself. No, I still had time. I still had a choice. It didn’t have to be like this.
I hooked up my iPod to the speakers and started playing Adam’s Song by Blink - 182. I started crying again, even harder than I had earlier that morning. I couldn’t believe I even still had tears left after that episode. I still had a choice. I could leave the dorm right now.
I didn’t want to go back home. I wanted to be dead.
What would change if went back home? Jack shit, that’s what. If I went back, I’d still be same panicked, depressed, bulimic fuck up. Just like Lucas said. I was nothing more than that. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t recover on my own, and yet I couldn’t grow up and admit to any adult that I’d been suffering from an eating disorder. If I couldn’t recover, if I couldn’t change, what was the point?
I spilled the jar of pills out on my bed. The bottle contained 350 pills. I could take five and sleep for the next couple of hours, or I could swallow all of them and sleep for the rest of eternity.
I was sick of it. I was sick of all of it. I was sick of fighting with myself; I was sick of fighting to be alive. “Sorry, mom. Sorry God,” I whispered. I shut my eyes tight, feeling tears fall out of the corners of my eyes and roll over my cheeks. I scooped up a handful of pills up off the bed.
