Naturally, everyone has a story. It's a unique thing, we all go through different circumstances. It shapes us. My story is not important. Nobody who reads this will actually care about it.
That is good. That is okay. I don't want anyone to care, I want them to listen. I want them to understand.
I don't know how I got there.
Was it the lack of therapy? The pure terror I felt every time someone raises their voice at me? The trauma of an abusive household? I know, I know "They didn't hit you, that's not abuse."
Noted and ignored. I don't care about your opinion. My mother, bipolar. My biological father, absent, all the way in Tennessee. Will he cry when I am gone? Probably not.
My step-father, unimportant. Did he add to the stress? Well absolutely. The bastard retired from the military 16 years ago. Did that stop him from acting like a drill sergeant? Hahaha no.
It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Besides the point.
Me, age 6. I meet my step-father. He seems fine. I am just happy to have a dad again. I Skype my biological father one day. I ask him why he left us. I know why he left.
The slamming doors, the breaking of glass, the rip of his uniform. It was my psycho mother. She tells me, "There is nothing wrong with me. Your biological father was abusive, a liar, and he smoked."
I don't believe her, but what does it matter. I'm only 6.
I am 9. I live in a foreign country. I know 2 people that speak English, but that doesn't bother me. They're my best friends. I learn french, speak it perfectly.
Already, at age 9, I am preassured to excel. To do better then my classmates. Doesn't matter I don't speak the language. I bad grade means I get nothing.
I get to go to school, come home, eat and then sleep. Maybe here is where my anxiety started. Maybe here is where my perfectionism started. My terror at doing anything wrong.
My terror of being yelled at and having glasses thrown at me. My terror of having everything and anything I loved taken from me.
My only consistency is my little stuffed rabbit and even that is taken and threatened at every opportunity.
I am 11. Sixth grade. I am a gifted student. Everything is easy. Still I forget to do work. I procrastinate my work I know I cannot do properly.
Doing it wrong would be worse than not doing it at all. Turning things in late, giving those missing points an excuse. I am 11 and I feel nothing. I do not cry that entire year.
I feel not joy no sadness. My mother gets no response from me as she's yelling and it infuriates her. She cuts up my stuffed rabbit. I sew it badly back together.
I am 13. I first learn that my mother is bipolar. She uses it as an excuse. I believe none of it. Everything clicks into place.
I am trapped with her, having cut off my biological father years ago. She is the reason they did not work. She refuses to go to therapy. "There's nothing wrong with me. I can handle it," she tells me.
I do not believe her. I delve into mental illness research. I realize could very possibly have an un-diagnosed mental illness. My mother brushes it off.
"Mental illness are fake illnesses." I do not bring up her bipolar disorder. I still barely feel anything. My first attempt comes during May.
Tests are rolling, I am stressed, stressed, stressed. My parents are yelling one after another. "Why didn't you ask for help? This is so easy. What is wrong with you? Why do you have all these missing assignments?" I go to sleep that night after taking 13 Motrin. I pray I don't wake up the next day. But I do. I wake up sick.
I throw-up so much during that day. Nobody notices the missing pills. Any medicine I take even now makes my body feel sick. Maybe it's my liver.
I am 15. 9th grade. Freshman year. Supposed to be the easiest year of high school. I take a single honors class. English. I ace the essays. My presentations flop.
I have an anxiety attack before each one. My teacher tells me to present to him during lunch. I liked him. He was kind. My homework, I do none of. I have to retake the class during the summer.
I do not care, it is only essays. My parents care. They call me a disappointment, and then deny it all when I bring it up. I remember, they gaslight me into distrusting my own mind. I care now.
I have emotions again. They have been clicked back into place by my first love. It didn't matter that I loved him. I hurt now in more places then one. It does not matter.
My second attempt happens then. Right after I ruin everything. I am in pieces. Slice slice slice. I regret the cuts immediately. On my thighs I still have the marks.
Blood stains on my sheets, blood stains on my pants. I blame my period. I am lying but it does not matter. I staunch the flow easily. Nobody notices. Nobody cares to look close enough.
I ask to see a therapist. They laugh and say to just go to the school counselor. I say nothing to that lady.
I am 16. Summer of sophomore year. I would be a junior. I took an online summer class. A mistake. So many mistakes. I have undiagnosed depression. Anxiety. Bipolar disorder.
Compartmentalized trauma. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. I don't feel anything anymore. And I never will. House is silent and creeping about is easy. Pills get swallowed with water.
You would think my final meal would be something tastier. Nothing matters. Will this affect them? Will I haunt them? Will my brother be okay? I hope so. I hope so. I hope so.
Goodbye GoodBye Goodbye. I am sorry Allison, I love you. Do not miss me. GoodBye GoodBye GoodBye. Tell Toast I am sorry. Tell Nic I am sorry. Tell Em I am sorry. This is my GoodBye.
My Insides have been shown, have been bared to the Outside. I am sorry. Goodbye.
This is a work of fiction based in the mind of a girl with depression. All names and circumstances are made-up. This is a fictional suicide note.