The truth that lies beneathe

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Life is Life
This is what happened, I didn't sugarcoat it. It's ugly, so if your sensitive, spare yourself.

Submitted: June 05, 2017

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Submitted: June 05, 2017

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The first time, I thought it was gonna work. I was done, and that's all I knew. I planned it, a week in advance. I put the dark daydreams on my sleeve, and I did it. It was a few days after losing him. He was just a fucking child. Swept under by the push and pull of a careless society, raising cruel kids. School was harsh, it doesn't get easier. 
One day, he called out my name, and waved to me from across the hall. How was I to know it was a goodbye? I didn't, but that's no excuse. Nobody knew. At least, not until it was a second too late. It hurts to remember, but I remind myself that I must not forget. If we lose the memories we have, we can lose the reason to fight. 
Cause and effect, it feels like dominoes. I was spinning faster and deeper into the depths of solitude. I felt alone, so that was what I became. 
One night, it was a normal night. Not unlike any other. Same, hungover feeling, but I wasn't drinking. I fell asleep quickly, with the same person on my mind. 
3 o clock rolls around, and I jerk awake. I don't know why, it just happened. I felt it, vibrating within my core. It was time. I was ready. God, I was so ready! 
I stood up, strangely calm. I felt no fear. 
I wish I had an excuse, some plausible reason for doing what I did. But there was me, and my demons. I decided to throw in the towel and let them win. 

So they pulled me, and gently I went. Down the stairs. I didn't have to be so quiet, because thankfully the air conditioning was on. The stairs creaked and the door to the basement protested, but I was patient, and very slow. Closing it behind me, I flipped on the light, and stared down the final set of stairs. I knew what awaited me, and for some reason, I felt sad knowing this was to be my last time going down these stairs. Slowly I went, soaking in everything I could. The dampness of the air around me, the hum of the light fixture above me. I saw my shadow and I thought, that's all ill ever be now, a shadow. 
The floor was cement, so I didn't need to be so careful about the noise. I sped up, taking care to not waste any time, I knew if I had the chance, I would change my mind. I didn't give myself the moment to think twice. A full system shut off, a complete power down, I had no thought. No way to stop it. 
I went to the corner of the room, and found the box. Inside was exactly what I needed. Bottles of poison, I chose the one with the highest alcohol content. In this case, it was vodka. The clear liquid was disgusting, absolutely foul stuff. I hates alcohol. But I despised myself even more. So on I went.  Back upstairs, I found my medicine in the cabinet. We had just had it refilled. Depicote, an antidepressant I think it was. 500 milligrams a pill. I knew it would do the trick. I stuck it in my bag, a small black knitted shoulder bag, along with the letters I wrote for the people worth saying goodbye to. 
So, with the bottle in hand, and a purse over my shoulder, I slipped on my winter boots and headed out the door. It was a chilly November night, of 2016, the tenth of November, to be exact. I shivered as I half ran to the place I had found earlier that week. An open field, with little vegetation, I think it was once a planting field, long since deserted. 
I walked to an area, near the only tree in sight. I put down my bag. I opened the bottle. I heard distant noises, and didn't pay it any mind, I had nothing to fear anymore, after all. Only seconds after my first swig and five pills, I realized it was me. I was sobbing, and I shook so hard, I nearly dropped the bottle. I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. It was over! I was...done. 
I took out my phone, the screen illuminated the night around me. I dialed a number. For privacy reasons, I won't state her name. Only that she was the one person, besides my parents, that had tried to save me. It rang, and rang,  till I reached the voicemail. She said hello, in her soft voice, and told me she'd get back to me as soon as she could. I smiled, and sobbed harder. My language was becoming quite slurred, I barely understood myself. I was trying to say, "Hey, man, I'm so sorry for doing this, you tried, you really did, and I'm so fucking sorry, but I can't! I can't, we both knew I couldn't be saved..." And I continued till I ran out of breath. Hanging up, I sent a text to her, saying how desperate I had become. It turned out to be a bunch of jumbled letters, for I was losing consciousness pretty quickly. Drinking more, I tried not to vomit up half the bottle of meds. I sent one last text, to my best friend. He hated me, he told me he was done with me, weeks prior to this. I had been doing drugs, and he was done trying to help me. I most likely said something sarcastic, like, see? I told you so. You were right, congrats. But weeks later, I went through the last texts, and it only said one thing. "I'm so sorry." 
I was still crying, and shoving pills down my throat. Swig after swallow, I managed to down almost more than half the bottle of vodka. I get numb. I felt relieved. It was over, I couldn't go back. Never again. Never..never.
My thoughts became slow and slurred, and slowly the night invade my eyes. 
  I didn't even feel myself hit the ground.

 

 

I was gone, I was sure of it. I saw nothing, felt nothing. 
Then, to my utter disappointment, a light found my eyes. The morning sun glared down at me, accusatory and cold. I could only think one word. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck!"
A figure appeared, looking down at me, where I lay, splayed out on the frozen ground. His radio cracked and popped, and sent static to my aching head. 
" Your pretty stupid Michaela." And that's all I heard. 
I opened my eyes, and I was crying, saying words like, "what the fuck? And, why aren't I gone?" 
They told me I was lucky to be alive. I told them I was honored. They got the gist, and left me alone. 
The hospital was cold. Everything about it screamed to me that this was real, that I had failed.
They moved me to two different hospitals, trying to get me medicine for my liver, which I was told I had messed up pretty good. 
My parents came to visit, a broken smile on their faces. They were glad I was okay, and they loved me so much. Mom had been crying. Dad looked strained. I felt like an asshole. Here I was, a fucked up kid, creating havoc, I couldn't even kill myself right! I felt trapped. It was over, in a worse way than it could ever be. 
I spent a week in a sych ward. Met broken people, met crazy people. I felt like I was losing my mind, every minute spent in that hell hole. They were only there to change my meds. Nothing else. I was told I needed therapy. To grieve, and sort shit out. "Your sick",they said. I needed help.  I said I knew I was fucked up. They didn't correct me. 
I've never felt so far away from the world as I did then. My muscles were messes up, from lying in the same position for 5 hours straight. So I walk around, feeling the physical aftermath. Fighting the emotion toll. 
  I have to admit, I sometimes wish I would've succeeded. Other times, I embrace the feeling of the warmth of the summer breeze on my skin. Fucked up, it is. Fucked up, I am and will always be. But...I'm surviving, so I guess it counts for something. 

 


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