A little too little ✔️

Chapter 7

It's the next morning. I fell asleep on my writing, but also I haven't eaten in a few days; so, I might've as well passed out. I woke up a couple of hours ago and got a bite to eat: toast with jam and a cup of tea. My eyes flashed to the note still lying on the floor, but I was able to successfully circumvent it. I believe the writing helps me, really. I woke up today being able to breathe easily, but what I'm about to tell you will likely drive me to my previous state. It's okay though, because now that you know who's involved, I have to say; I have to tell you.

Two decades ago, on a fateful night, my parents went out to celebrate their anniversary. I was left alone with everything, and nothing to do. So, I thought I'd write letters for them that they could show to their grandchildren one day. They'd say, "look what your mama wrote for us on our fifteenth anniversary." They'd say that, and my children would make fun of my cheesiness. I craved for such an occurrence. My parent's love made me want to love someone, and it was all so much love, and I was high off of it. Little did I know that; sometimes, too much love is what gives us too much pain.

After I had finished the letters, I went to drop them in my parent's room. Each letter in the nightstand that belonged to the recipient. The letters were perfect. They were  filled with glitter and hearts, yet something felt missing. I looked at them some more and decided to just let it be, and oh, only if I did. On my way back to my room I saw a note on the refrigerator,  it was mom's. It was a recipe to her new pie that she wanted to introduce to the bakery. I thought what a better gift than that of what she loves the most? So I worked on that pie like my life depended on it, and it did, so only if I had done it right.

I then set a mood for them. I lit a candle and set out the fancy cutlery. I let the oven open, and right when I was about to pick up the pie and put it in, I felt something trickle down my thigh. It was blood. I rushed up to the bathroom and stayed there for minutes trying to figure out what to do before I phoned my parents. I hadn't had the period talk yet and I thought that I was dying. Sometimes, I wish I was.

I know I stayed in the bathroom too long because once I realized I let the oven door open and lit a candle too, and rushed downstairs. I saw the most horrible sight one can see, my parents opened the door once the gas leak interacted with the candle flame. Then it was all red. Red, red, red. Red down my thighs and red surrounding me. It was all red, red, red. Then black.

I don't know if you get it, I don't know if you understand how killing your own parents demolishes you. I don't know if you know that I spent so many nights wishing I died with them. I don't know if you know that I spent many other nights trying to. It was all black. They were gone and I made them go. I was the destruction. I was the flaw. I was everything wrong with their wonderful life. People looked at me with a mixture of horror and pity. I didn't blame them, I loathed myself too, I really did.

It was all so horrible and I can never explain it. I can't tell you how I've been sent to psychiatric hospitals on end, due to my suicidal nature. I can't tell you about the pain. I can't tell you how something just put all its weight on my heart and just crushed it. I knew I wasn't worth anything then, and I knew I didn't want to be worthy of anything. I just wanted to die. I just wanted to see my parents and tell them that I'm so sorry. That I'm terrible and that they deserve so much better;  you don't get it, I just wanted to say sorry.

That was when I started my panic attacks. I didn't mind them then. If that was my punishment, I would take it a million more times: that was how I thought. The panic attacks were frequent and triggered by the simplest things. Still are, a little red sets my mind way back when I'm having a stressful day, and at that time i was having a stressful life. I tried to hide them though, I really did. Nevertheless, the foster parent was really attentive, and that's when I started taking therapy sessions. The therapy never made me forgive myself, though. I just tolerated being in my own body a little more. Yet, I still hated my own body. I was a little scarred on the side from the fire but that was the mark of shame that I swore to carry for the rest of my life.

I took a year off school with all what was going on, and even when I came back I wasn't really focused. I stopped being the pretty pink girl that made everyone want to be her. I started off as the depressed one and hung out with those that had my same energy. I did drugs, tried to overdose some more, yet every time I survived it. Every time I tried to end my existence, I sprung back into the horrendous truth that is life. I spent three years of my life embracing my worthlessness until I decided I didn't want to anymore.

Yes, I am no one. Yes, I will forever be the greatest failure. But embracing it? That's just lazy. Real vengeance on myself would be pushing myself to succeed, knowing I don't deserve it. It would be living a long life scarred by the mistakes I once made. It would be eternal hurt, and suicide was my easy way out. So, I worked. I quit drugs, I studied, and I took on a job; then I studied some more. I pushed myself up. I went up high, high, high. I still felt low, low, low. It was exhausting to live in such contrast. It was demeaning to get all these awards yet know deep within that I'm not laudable of them. It was harder than getting high and lazing around. It hurt, and I deserved hurt.