A Glimpse Into My Life

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
I've been sent to a rehabilitation center four times in my sixteen years alive. This story is about my life before my third time there... it doesn't tell a lot of what really happened, but it explains vaguely what I went through.

Submitted: May 20, 2009

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Submitted: May 20, 2009

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Sometimes I feel like I’m invisible, even when I’m surrounded by people, I feel like no one sees me. And then other times I feel like I’m too visible, like everyone can see right through me; they can see all my troubles and my hurt and how messed up I am on the inside. When I feel invisible, it’s like I want people to know how much pain I’m in, but when I feel visible, I want nothing more than to conceal the strife which brews within me. I guess I can never really get what I want though, because most of the time I don’t know what I want. Frequently, I feel as if I’m in a constant state of confusion, not understanding others, my surroundings, or even myself—especially myself. Someone once told me I was mysterious; I was dumbfounded. For so long I felt like I wore my pain on my sleeve, visible to anyone who cared to pay attention, but he said I was a complete mystery to him. Later that night, while I was trying to sleep, I thought about that. I thought about how much I wished I could tell my secrets to him, and yet I thought about how much I would never want him to know. I’m not sure what made me desire to tell him, whether it be that I simply wanted to talk about it, or whether I wanted someone to feel true sympathy for me.
Since I was just a kid, people have been telling me how great my life is. They would tell me that I’m beautiful, that I’m smart, that I’m rich, that I have everything in the world going for me. Even now, people who don’t know the truth are envious of what I have. Obviously I know I could have it much worse. I could have been raised in an abusive home, or I could have been raised in poverty, living from paycheck to paycheck, wondering where my next meal was going to come from. And sometimes I do feel like I’m making way too big of a deal out of everything, that things are better than they feel, that I really do have everything going for me. But then I truly look at my life, and every time I do I become so sad I want nothing more than to end the miserable excuse of it. I look at my complete lack of friends, of how I stay home on the weekends, cooped in my room reading books and writing poems. I look at my lack of boyfriends, and how I crave the touch of a boy and for someone to look at me like I’m the most beautiful, perfect creature on this earth. I think of my old best friend, lost to me forever, leaving only the memories of when we used to spend endless hours hanging out, talking about life and love and anything that came into our minds. I look at my family’s decreasing income, how as time progresses the pantry becomes more and more empty, and never really fills up like it used to. And finally I think of my relationship with my parents, how I make my mom cry constantly, how she tells me that I’m wrecking her life and her marriage, that things would be easier if I would just go away. I think of how my dad doesn’t want to see me, except for the occasional dinner or movie here or there. He would never want me to come to his house, to spend valuable father daughter time with him, because he doesn’t want me to wreck his life like I’ve wrecked my mother’s. Though I know both my parents love me, neither of them want me. I’m simply a nuisance, an obligation they have to fulfill.
I’m about to be a senior in high school. I spent most of my freshmen and sophomore year hanging out with friends, drinking and partying on weekends, hooking up with random guys and then avoiding them at school. I was popular, outgoing, funny, smart, and pretty. Nothing was perfect, but it was good enough. Near the end of sophomore year, things changed, though I’m not sure why. Nights that I would usually spend with friends, I preferred to spend by myself, lying in bed watching TV and eating chocolate by the ton. I couldn’t sleep at night; I would stay up and watch TV, mess around on the computer, or simply stare at the ceiling and wonder what was happening to me. I knew it wasn’t normal. I knew I wasn’t being myself. Yet no one else really seemed to notice. My friends simply stopped inviting me to go places, stopped calling or texting me or talking to me. I would go to school exhausted, barely able to make it through the school day without falling asleep, and yet when I got home and climbed in bed, sleep wouldn’t come. I felt no peace. There were constantly thoughts stirring inside my head. And while part of me wanted to end this, to go back to how I used to be, I simply couldn’t. I felt changed, like someone had taken over my body and I no longer had control. Every once in a while I would go out with friends, but it was never the same. I wasn’t able to smile and laugh and make jokes like I had in the past, instead I simply listened to everyone else talk, fiddling with my hands and watching the clock, wondering when I would be able to be by myself again.
This went on for months, getting worse and worse as each day passed. I was apathetic about school, blowing off projects and not studying for tests, many days not bothering in coming to school at all. My grades dropped drastically; while I had previously been an A/B student, my grades were now D’s and F’s, and they were just dropping lower and lower with every homework assignment I didn’t turn in and every essay I ignored. My parents were furious with me; they tried to make me study, my mom would send me to my room with my backpack and open the binder in front of me, putting the pen in my hand. I would simply stare at the page, refusing to do work, refusing to do anything. She would yell and scream and cry and pace around the room in frustration, yet all to no avail. I felt no guilt, no sympathy for her; I felt nothing. I should have been scared that I had lost all emotion, but I couldn’t even feel that. I was completely vacant, as if I wasn’t even among the living any longer. I was still walking the earth, still breathing and showering and walking, yet I was dead.
One night, I was home alone. My parents had a tennis match, and I had been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about nothing, when I simply got out of bed, walked downstairs, retrieved the bottle of Aspirin from the medicine cabinet, and swallowed all of it. I didn’t think about how much my family would be hurt, or how many people would miss me; I had had enough. I was tired of nothing… tired of everything, for everything was nothing for me. I went back up to my bed and climbed under the covers, waiting for death to take over. Slowly the world became hazy, my body felt strange against the soft covers of my bed, and I knew that I was close. I knew that soon I would leave this earth; I would become worm food, leaving others to mourn over me. I waited and waited, a strange sensation spreading around my body with each passing minute. I was close to death when the garage door opened. With effort, I turned my head toward the door, knowing soon enough my mom would come in to check on me. I heard the garage door open and close, muffled voices coming from downstairs, keys being dropped on the granite countertop. I listened as my step dad turned on the TV, as slow, steady footsteps began up the stairs, until they were outside my door, and then the door was open. My mother was in her tennis outfit, her bangs stuck to her forehead from sweat. She didn’t notice anything different; she just came in, gave me a smile, and asked, “How are you?”
I wanted to tell her good, but my mouth was sticky and dry, and the words wouldn’t form. I moved my head so that I was staring at the ceiling, and I felt my eyes roll back, to where I saw half blackness, and half of the world. It was reminiscent of my place right now: half alive, half dead.
“Mallory?” Mom asked worriedly, taking a step closer. I felt the vomit coming up before I could move. I was lying on my back, and I began choking, unable to turn on my side. But suddenly hands were moving me, and I wasn’t choking anymore. My mom was screaming for my step dad, tears running down her face, and whispering questions to me all along. “Why did you do this?” she kept asking, “Why would you do this to us?”
They loaded me in the car and drove me to the hospital. I felt like I was being pulled into the darkness, losing my hold of reality with every mile we drove. My step dad carried me inside the ER, and I skipped all the patients sitting in chairs waiting to be seen, and they took me straight back to a white room and laid me on a cold, hard bed and stuck a tube down my throat. I don’t remember what it felt like. I can’t imagine it felt good, having a group of people pumping drugs out of your stomach.
They kept me in the hospital for the rest of the night, and the night after, too. I had to drink this charcoal drink, which turned my teeth black and made me gag. My mom only left my side to get food from the cafeteria. My dad even came, but he didn’t stay the whole time. He came and saw me, told me he loved me, told me it would be okay, and then he was gone. For the first time in a while, I felt sadness. I didn’t want him to leave; I wanted him to stay with me, to care for me as my mom did.
The morning after my second night there, a lady came to evaluate me. She asked me questions, like why I took the pills, and what I thought I should do now. I told her I wanted to die, and that all I wanted to do was go back to school and try to make decent out of my grades. She just smiled and wrote on a clipboard and told me she’d talk to the psychologist, and then she was gone. For hours I laid in that hospital bed, watching TV and feeling uncomfortable in the thin hospital gown they forced me to wear. I wanted my regular clothes back. I wanted to be in my bed, in my house, watching my TV. Yet I was stuck, and I knew it.
Finally, the decision was made. I was to be sent to Ridgeview, a rehabilitation facility. I was able to put my normal clothes back on, and I followed a man and a woman outside where the sun was shining brightly yet the air was chilly, and into an ambulance, where they put me in the back and buckled me up. It wasn’t a long drive there, and the ambulance drivers didn’t talk to me, they simply muttered to each other, and I looked out the back window at all the cars behind me, wondering if they could see me inside.


© Copyright 2018 Mallory. All rights reserved.

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