I didn't know that I'd be hellbent on killing myself that night when I woke up. I knew that something was wrong, of course, but I figured it would be the same as the past few days. I'd go to work, and I'd coddle the cat that always clawed at me while I tried to help it. Then I'd cry that I wasn't getting coddled myself late into the night. I'd fall asleep between sets of tears, and do it all again tomorrow.
Off to work I went. I was happy with my outfit that day. I didn't eat lunch. I laughed at a video that someone had put up. I listened to my coworker feign guilt about cheating on her boyfriend of four years. I felt horrible, but I did feel alive. I went home and prayed that my friend didn't remember that he asked me for a favor later that day.
I ate just a few handfuls of something or other, just enough to make myself feel full, and went to the bathroom to look at my shins. They had some scarring on them, but they were starting to heal. The healing bothered me. I wanted a little more. Well, maybe a little more wouldn't be satisfying. Maybe I should do as much as I could tolerate. Then I wouldn't have to do it ever again. I knew it was bad to hurt myself, but I only wanted to do it to the minimum extent possible to keep myself happy. If I just did a lot, all at once, and collapsed on the floor three shades paler, that'd be just enough. I'd be happy then, and I could stop for a short while.
What if Zach remembered his favor? He might call any second. He might come by if I didn't answer the phone, and then he'd see how stupid I was when left on my own. What if the blood didn't stop, and he saw how much I hurt? I couldn't decide if that was good or bad.
I ran in and out of the bathroom twenty times in two hours. Every time, I went through the same debate, and every time, I left and waited for him to remember.
He called, of course. I ran out of the bathroom one last time, and went to his house. There were lots of new people there. They seemed sweet, but I couldn't bring myself to talk to them. I sat and rooted myself on the couch, trying to look as happy as I could so no one would try to talk to me. I listened to a speech about the government that was worse than a seventh grader's, said bye to his strange, sweet friends, and got in Zach's car to go home.
My throat started feeling strange on the way back. I thought I was just tired, but then my eyes started feeling strange, too, and I started thinking strange things. I was on the verge of tears, two feet away from someone, and I couldn't bring myself to say a word about it. He parked in the wrong lot, and I sprinted across the grass to get to my room.
I think that's about when I realized that I wanted to die that night. I thought about calling him and begging him to stay with me. There wasn't anyone else, really. He was the first person I'd seen that wasn't a coworker in at least a week.
I remembered that cat, and how stupid it was. It didn't eat for three days, then ate as much chocolate as it could find. Then it let its limbs be torn open by shards of glass. I took it to the vet as fast as I could, blaming myself the whole way while it hissed and clawed at me. The next morning, after it'd been stitched up, it laid on my lap all day and didn't leave even when I broke into shaking, horrible sobs. In the afternoon, it changed its mind and decided that my presence was so intolerable that it should run away altogether.
I didn't remember going to lay in bed, but there I was. I didn't remember going to my desk to start writing some sort of explanation as to what I was about to do to myself, and there I was. I didn't know what was wrong with me at all. One minute, I thought I was the most pathetic, useless, unforgivable person to exist. Another minute, I wanted to be hugged and to just cry it out, and I was convinced that that's all I would need to be alright again. Other times, I'd just stare at the wall, slowly sinking further and further down. I either thought thirty things at once, or nothing at all, or shook and shook without reason.
Eventually, the thoughts stopped being a problem as much as the overthinking itself. My brain was getting fried. I thought I was dying already, and I just had to speed it up. I hadn't decided on how I'd do it yet. I'd been working through it the past few weeks, but there were so many factors to consider that I just got overwhelmed. It had to be quick, or else I'd back out while preparing. It couldn't have hurt too much or for too long, or I'd not be able to follow through. It had to not cause too much public distress, and it had to be discreet, but someone needed to know it happened so the body could be taken quickly. It couldn't have a chance of leaving me helpless and dependent for life if I failed.
I had another dead phase. I stared at the door, buzzing in my ears, not able to think a single word for a while. The rush came back. Did it really matter if my roommate saw my body? If it had a high success rate and was quick enough, would the pain really matter? Wouldn't it be fine if it took some time to find me?
I settled on running in front of a truck. It didn't need much bravery. The street wasn't even a minute away from where I was, and all sorts of trucks and cars would blow past any sort of speed limits. I told myself that after I was done writing whatever I was writing, I'd go straight out the door and that would be that.
Somehow, my boyfriend ended up calling me. I didn't say a word about wanting to kill myself or anything like that. I froze up, didn't say a word for five minutes straight, and then told him that there's no way I'd be talking to him if I did want to kill myself. The adrenaline rushes were getting weaker and shorter. I asked him to talk about nonsense, and fell asleep in three minutes flat.
---
I don't know when I woke up. It must have been early. I called a nice enough doctor from my school at noon. I told her I'd probably be like that again in a week, and I needed something before then. I said that I wanted to jump in front of a truck, and she laughed as she said she couldn't easily stop me from that. She told me she'd make sure I had the help I needed, and I tried as hard as I could to believe her. Later, I saw my dad. I thought about telling him, too, till I saw his new gray hairs. I whined about my boyfriend and that damn cat instead, and he told me about how he got all screwed up by my mom.
The doctor lied, of course, and I didn't get anything from her. I found a therapist who said the world needed more young people like me, and never charged me a thing. She told me that my school had a lawsuit on their hands if they kept treating students the way they treated me. They had known for the past five months that I wanted to die, but left me on a waiting list with a promise of having someone for me as soon as possible. They told me not to find someone on my own all that time, but they kicked me out altogether after my incident.
I don't remember when I started feeling better. I know that I had many more plans, and that my legs hurt all the time. I remembered that an old friend really did try to run in front of a truck, but only managed to break bones. I gave up on that. I learned that slashing your arms only has a two percent chance of succeeding. I thought about jumping from the rocks at the cliffs, since heights usually work plenty well, but I didn't want to make a park ranger clean it up. So I put them together into one big mess - I'd go to the top of the dorms, break the windows, take as many pain meds as I could, slash my wrists, and fall down before anyone realized what was going on.
As I walked into work on a miserably hot day, I realized I was bored of thinking of suicide, and bored of making plans. I laid on a couch, trying to think of something else, but nothing else would come to mind. So I didn't think of anything at all, and felt happy for the first time in a while.
The next time the cat came meowing at my door to beg for food, I let it starve.
