Short Story

A Murder of Crows

I stand before them, ready to finally make them listen. 

"No! You're going to shut up and listen for once in your lives!"

I wanted to cry already. I know though that I have to get through this. It's time.

"I didn't make that post because I thought you should know what's going on in my life, or for you to pity me or give me sympathy. You see, at the top of that post, there's a little line that said 'I feel relieved.' None of you cared to notice that. You just wanted to cry for me. Do me a favor; don't. I made that post as part of my therapy because part of my problem is a fear of judgement. And guess what, you're part of the problem."

I stare at them with pain. A pain that has its roots deep in my soul and its branches clogging my brain. A pain that they fueled.

"For example, when I have an opinion that I strongly believe in, you," I pointed to them. "You called me a fucking prude and put me down. You didn't respect my choices! You didn't respect me! You! And my father! And her! You all put me down for no good reason! I HAD MY REASONS! THEY WERE PERFECTLY VALID REASONS! But no! I'm a prude because I won't drink alcohol!"

I stare, and I cry. I don't care that I am.

"My reasoning for not doing so were simple: I was worried about my health. You know what the problem is with having a mental disorder? Knowing you have one and no one believing you. Needing help and no one helping you. I knew I was in a bad place. I knew I was was on the edge of something bad, and I KNEW that NOTHING good would come to me if I drank. I knew that, and I tried to tell you that, but you wouldn't listen because you're stuck in your own pain. 

"So you know what I did? I took advantage of a situation that was offered to me. I knew it wasn't the right thing to do, but I wanted to validate myself because no one would listen. Two and half shots of honey flavored whiskey. One rum and coke. I was fine until I stopped drinking the poison. The minute I did, I went straight into a panic attack. So while you were all tucked softly away into your beds upstairs, I sat at the edge of mine with a water bottle in one hand and my phone in the other, desperately trying to figure out why I'm struggling to breathe! I had never had two panic attacks at once. I'm surprised I'm still alive. I passed out twice that night. I don't remember when. I'm not sure for how long. I just know I did, and that I was alone.

"Now, you may be wondering 'oh! Why didn't you come wake us up?' I didn't bother waking you up because I didn't think you could help me! I'd just get the same crap I've heard my whole life. 'It's just in your head. Get over it.' Well, surprise! Look at that! You were right! It is all in my fucked up little head, and it's bad enough that I could be diagnosed by a psychologist. You must be so proud. I put my life at risk to prove myself right. I made the choice against others' wishes to see a therapist on my own. I SAVED MYSELF! YOU?! YOU HURT ME!"

That scream felt so good.

"I don't have much, and my life has been far from pretty, but I have small things to live for; dreams that I want to come true. I see real happiness for me in my future. Not the bottom of glass bottle. I see me getting better, and being better than you ever were, because I'm putting my health, myself, first for once. I will never let myself be as sad as you; so sad that I have to poison myself to escape the pain. This may make me different, but that doesn't make it bad. You can either accept that or get out of my life!"

The water on my face feels like freedom.