It’s 8:24. There’s a thunderstorm outside. I love thunderstorms because they mirror what goes on my mind. Chaos, booming noise, darkness, blinding flashes of light. I want to go stand in the grass and watch the black clouds fly across the sky.
It’s 8:30. I stand in the bathroom and stare at the bottles in the linen closet. There are a lot of them: Aleve, ibuprofen, Lexapro, all full. At least 100 pills total. Why not. At least it would stop. I hate my mind. I hate my depression. I hate myself. I am my depression, even though I’m not.
I mean, who would miss me? I have no friends, none. If I died, maybe three people would care. And not for long. My husband would find a better wife, my dad’s too busy, and my son is starting a new chapter in his life in a couple of months.
It’s 8:41. I’ve taken apart a disposable razor. I’m just sitting on the edge of the tub, thinking. My body is covered in self-harm scars, my face, my legs, my arms. What’s a few more, except I promised myself I wouldn’t. Why doesn’t anyone like what I write? Why do shitty op-eds go viral, but what I write gets viewed by like 10 people? What’s wrong with me?
It’s 8:43. I’m still in the bathroom. Still staring at the bottles, still staring at the razor blade. I fucking hate myself. Everyone else does, too, so let’s just get this over with. Third time’s a charm, isn’t that what “they” say? I tried on my 16th birthday, and failed. I tried when I was 24, medically died, but they brought me back, so failed.
It’s 8:45. I throw the razor out, put all the bottles back, and am very, very tired. I’ve been fighting this for days, and it’s goddamn exhausting. Someday, I’m going to be too tired to fight, and no one will care.
It’s 9:00. I’ll be alright, eventually. I can’t go to therapy, so I’m dealing with this on my own, and it’s hard. I might slip up, I might get the razor out of the trash, but I’m pretty sure I’m not going to kill myself tonight.