snail mail to australia // a.i

chapter seven

Ashton and I continued to talk subsequently after he had told me the words that made my heart swoon. He made me smile every single day, and was so sweet, soon enough, it was time to go back to school.

The long and baggy sleeves had fortunately covered the incidents of days before, as I slung my backpack over my shoulder and trudged down the creaky steps of my house. After what happened with my dad, Ashton had a goal to try and make me happy, and to attempt to distract me from every catastrophic event that had been going on in my life.

That routine carried on for weeks, and by the time it was mid-February, I wasn’t doing well. I believe that there is a string of events that could describe the phrase, “not doing well.”

I could have Stage 4 terminal cancer, or living on the streets of a third-world country, but I’m not. I’m an average teenage introvert with family issues- no big deal. However to the doctors, apparently having major depression, ADHD, and anxiety with panic attacks was slightly concerning. Being diagnosed with ADHD was tough, because my passion for writing was put on a slight detour. I encountered several panic attacks a day, every single day- and alongside that, I just didn’t want to live. Ashton didn’t have any of that. He was so set on the fact that I was going to get better, he believed in me, and I relied on him.

Although we texted, Ash and I still continue to write each other letters every Thursday. We saved topics such as our “monthly favourites” for our letters, and we talked regularly through text messages. Ashton had become my only friend, no exaggeration intended. I became the girl who slept with a taken 10th grader. And even though Luke had cleared up the rumours, harsh remarks still continued to circulate through the hallways. Nobody bothered to say anything to my face, but when I had entered the cafeteria the first day back, and sat alone, I think that had said enough.

A bittersweet advantage about being best friends with someone who lives 8,188 miles away (I checked) is that they can’t see your face, and you can’t see theirs. Meaning, Ashton can never tell when I am telling a lie.

   Received 10:00pm: hey lauren x

   Sent 10:02pm: hey ash x

   Received 10:03pm: how are you? X

   Sent: 10:04pm: I’m good J you?

   Received 10:04pm: that’s great! And I’m awesome :D

   Sent 10:06pm: yes, you are ;)

   Received 10:07pm: *laughing emoji*

See what I mean? He has absolutely no idea that I was really crying whilst texting him. The day prior to that, he had asked me how I was. I replied with, “I’m fine! :)” Ashton was unaware of the fact that I had relapsed, but the thing is- I can’t blame him. ‘Cos yes, he knows that I have a list of mental illnesses, but I have zero reasons to have them. I wish there was an easier explanation to say why I was depressed, but there isn’t. I’m not depressed because I get bullied and I’m not depressed because my family all burned in a fire. I don’t have a terminal disease and I’m not 16 and pregnant. I have two siblings, my parents live together and we live in a townhouse situated in the nice part of town. I have allowance and decent grades, and sure- maybe I don’t have any friends, and maybe my dad hits my mom and has hit me on purpose, but that’s no reason to want to die. So why? Why do I feel the need to tear open my skin with a sharp piece of metal? Why must I crave the feeling of metallic red blood dripping down my wrist? Why do I feel this sick longing for being sad? Why am I so pathetic?

Through the course of February I had been stressing out over various tests and mid-terms, thus being inactively speaking to Ash. I felt bad because we had just confessed that we loved each other but I hadn’t meant it. On February 17th 2014, Mr.Patelli had called me to a private counselling on the day that I was supposed to have support group. That meant one of two things- 1. Mr.Patelli was getting very suspicious that something was going on, 2. Someone else was getting very suspicious that something was going on. I doubt it was the latter for I’m not close to anyone in my support group. I remember the conversation exactly: