𝒆𝒍𝒊
Usually, depression causes me to not eat a lot, at least when it's bad. I remember I told Rhys and I complained a couple of times. After a while, I understood it was triggering for him and then I suffered in silence. Not forever, because I got to know Aiden and when he found out I have anxiety he said he did too and then we helped each other. Or, he helped me. I'm not good at helping.
When Rhys and I broke up, I kind of expected that that would happen. I would lie in bed, watch sitcoms I've already seen a thousand times, starve, and wait for death.
What actually happened was that I had a weird period where I was just constantly angry, then I guess I was just normal sad. The real episode kicked in now, way later, when real life slammed into me.
Having a lot of things to do makes me not do anything at all. Now I'm just lying in bed and watching those stupid sitcoms. The only difference is that I'm eating and drinking a lot.
For the past week (at least I think it's been a week) I've woken up by my parents going to work. Then I'll throw something over the thinner clothes I sleep in to cover up my scars and the fact that I haven't showered in days, which is a little gross but I guess I don't care. And I don't care that people maybe think I look stupid when I buy multiple bottles of wine and soda, dozens of bags of chips and pizzas. I don't care. I just want this to end. I want everything to end.
I don't care that my parents might walk in and see me in a t-shirt and Rhys's sweatpants that I kind of forgot was his sweatpants with my scars out. I don't care that blood is trickling down my wrist and staining the mattress. I don't care that there are food and wine stains over my sheets. I don't care that I haven't showered in, like, a week.
I'm disgusting. I know I'm disgusting. But everything feels so pointless, and it used to do that when I was with Rhys too. Just these dark phases of lying in bed and hoping to die, trying to die.
But at least he was there to play with my hair and give me simple tasks that I could try to do. Not to do, try to. He'd ask me if I could just move to the couch, and we could watch one of those stupid sitcoms. And even though he found it triggering, he'd ask me to eat, and if he was triggered by me saying no, he didn't show it.
That was the problem all along, wasn't it? That he always kept quiet and told me to go on.
Is that my fault?
I knew I shouldn't go on and on about my problems but Rhys told me to. And I told him to talk to me back but usually he didn't. He'd say he wasn't comfortable with that.
He spoke about stuff a bit more towards the end. He stopped when I had my suicide attempt six months ago. After that, all he told me about his feelings was that he was sad I tried to die and he wanted this and that in our future but none of that happened because he broke up with me.
I mean, when lying in that hospital bed, I didn't expect those promises to come true. I even said that, that I didn't think we'd last that long, whether it was because of mental illness or him not loving me anymore or him getting tired of me... something was bound to happen.
He said, No, my love, that's not going to happen.
But Rhys was always like that. A hypocrite who gave a lot of empty promises.
Before I can start sobbing, my door opens. Her eyes widen. I look sick. I'm sitting in a pool of blood, only hidden by a blanket and that's probably not doing much. Wine bottles are everywhere, razorblades clearly displayed on my bedside table.
Without a word, she storms inside and tries to collect the blades.
I throw myself over them, cutting my fingers several times. Double-sided razorblades are great when you like to inflict accidental harm to yourself because that hurts more than doing it on purpose. They don't work as well when fighting your mom for them.
