I knew I was going to die by my own hand someday. It has been prophesied since the day I could form any meaningful relationship. Constant teacher and counselor meetings worried about my grades and mental health, concerned chats about those depression doctor evaluations that I was just a little bit too honest on. It was as if they knew something was wrong with me before I was old enough to process it. Last to pick up on a social cue, outcasted to the sidelines, destined to be last picked in gym class, determined to be the butt of the joke. Every taunt and humiliating laugh had blended into my own self-doubt and hatred over the past years. I haven’t been able to differentiate what is and isn’t my own thoughts in a really long time.
I had no plans after 16 years old. I was born to be nothing but somebody who lived and died. My life would become the world's longest and dumbest suicide attempt. The only thing I could hope for is that they bury me in a graveyard with a pretty headstone. Eventually, the teacher’s interventions and the doctor’s questioning stopped. I'm unsure of when the passive suicidal ideation stopped being a concern and just became a given.
The feeling in my feet was nonexistent. My soaked-through boots numb any lingering feeling that might’ve been spared by the harsh cold. But I can't process any of it. Not the spreading loss of feeling in other parts of my body, not the snowflakes that seared against my frosted cheeks, not the snow that started to leak through the thin layers of clothes. How long have I been standing here? Thirty minutes? An hour? Several hours? There was no way of measuring how long it's been outside of the pain in my digits.
But I can't feel any of it. Each frostbitten pain and skin-numbing gust that easily fought its way against my thin windbreaker was felt 50 miles away. Nerves and pain sensors were replaced with polyester cotton. Like the only thing that pulled me along was a tight puppeteer’s string. A string pullingme to the same spot on the bridge. Desperately gripping the freezing cold metal railings. Only three feet worth of concrete and steel separated me from the 40-foot drop into the lake below me.
The lake. It looks cold. Extremely cold. The mirror sheet reflected against the dim streetlights and white sky. Despite that, you can see the water still flowing painfully slowly beneath the ice. Any amount of pressure would threaten to break its pristine glass form. Its silence left nothing but the waves beneath the ice and a faint ringing in my left ear that threatened to get louder. Once I jump in, would it be refreshing like a cold sip of water on a hot summer day, feeling it trickle down my throat? Would it feel like a wave of relief, a frozen body lifeless, weightless, floating like it always belonged? Or maybe casual acceptance.
My reflection cast back the image of my mother. Deepset circles under her eyes and a furrowed brow. She looked tired and lifeless. She trudges along the house, and the slouch in her once-perfect posture is a dead giveaway of countless nights of researching on our shared household computer. “10 signs of depression in teenagers”, “How to know if your daughter is okay”, “Why is my daughter avoiding me”, “Why won't my child eat”, “How to calm panic attacks”, “Why won’t my daughter talk to me”, “What to do with a suicidal teenager.” Art therapy, holistic therapy, psychodynamic therapy, countless psychology website bookmarks, self-help, and parenting books with dozens of sticky notes sticking out the sides. Bills upon bills and extra night shifts at the hospital.
She's tired of trying to help me. She has been kept at a distance since my plan was decided. Short answers that are satisfactory enough to not get questioned, eating when she was around so she wouldn't worry about my lack of sustenance and nutrition, locking myself in my room for days with no signs of being alive or dead aside from the occasional rustling of sheets and covers, avoiding her like the plague to prevent confrontation about my behavior.
She eventually accepted every half-assed response to her pitiful attempts at starting a conversation, accepted the tension-filled silent car rides, the failing grades, the countless calls from counselors. Maybe it was acceptance that I will always be like this. Maybe it was out of frustration. Maybe she had no energy left to give. I slowly watched the love in her eyes die as her life drained with it. And I could do nothing but sit back and watch. Our relationship was doomed to be nothing more than an exhausted mother taking care of her suicidal daughter that she no longer knew what to do with. I know she loves me, but she will not miss me. I know she won’t. At the end of the day, I am not the lively, happy daughter she wanted to match energies with, even if she says otherwise. She has a habit of lying like that. But I know she won’t yearn for the burden that will be off her back. I love her enough to make sure of that. I just hope she is prepared for my absence.
Nobody will miss me once I start sinking to the bottom of the lake. Any lasting relationships died with the person or were burnt to cinders long before anything meaningful could prosper. All I can hope for is a selfish tear or two, just so this dreadful feeling won't die after I leave. Humanity doesn’t deserve to feel joy when I disappear.
A bitter gust of wind snapped my thoughts. Suddenly aware of my surroundings for the first time in days. Aware of my death grip on the railing, the pins and needles I felt in every limb, the loss of feeling in my face. Beyond the lake was a river winding through a forest. Blankets of soft layers of white twinkled in what's left of the late winter afternoon moonlight. At least the snow is pretty during this time of year.
I had no plans after 16 years old. I was born to be nothing but somebody who lived and died. My life would become the world's longest and dumbest suicide attempt. The only thing I could hope for is that they bury me in a graveyard with a pretty headstone. Eventually, the teacher’s interventions and the doctor’s questioning stopped. I'm unsure of when the passive suicidal ideation stopped being a concern and just became a given.
The feeling in my feet was nonexistent. My soaked-through boots numb any lingering feeling that might’ve been spared by the harsh cold. But I can't process any of it. Not the spreading loss of feeling in other parts of my body, not the snowflakes that seared against my frosted cheeks, not the snow that started to leak through the thin layers of clothes. How long have I been standing here? Thirty minutes? An hour? Several hours? There was no way of measuring how long it's been outside of the pain in my digits.
But I can't feel any of it. Each frostbitten pain and skin-numbing gust that easily fought its way against my thin windbreaker was felt 50 miles away. Nerves and pain sensors were replaced with polyester cotton. Like the only thing that pulled me along was a tight puppeteer’s string. A string pullingme to the same spot on the bridge. Desperately gripping the freezing cold metal railings. Only three feet worth of concrete and steel separated me from the 40-foot drop into the lake below me.
The lake. It looks cold. Extremely cold. The mirror sheet reflected against the dim streetlights and white sky. Despite that, you can see the water still flowing painfully slowly beneath the ice. Any amount of pressure would threaten to break its pristine glass form. Its silence left nothing but the waves beneath the ice and a faint ringing in my left ear that threatened to get louder. Once I jump in, would it be refreshing like a cold sip of water on a hot summer day, feeling it trickle down my throat? Would it feel like a wave of relief, a frozen body lifeless, weightless, floating like it always belonged? Or maybe casual acceptance.
My reflection cast back the image of my mother. Deepset circles under her eyes and a furrowed brow. She looked tired and lifeless. She trudges along the house, and the slouch in her once-perfect posture is a dead giveaway of countless nights of researching on our shared household computer. “10 signs of depression in teenagers”, “How to know if your daughter is okay”, “Why is my daughter avoiding me”, “Why won't my child eat”, “How to calm panic attacks”, “Why won’t my daughter talk to me”, “What to do with a suicidal teenager.” Art therapy, holistic therapy, psychodynamic therapy, countless psychology website bookmarks, self-help, and parenting books with dozens of sticky notes sticking out the sides. Bills upon bills and extra night shifts at the hospital.
She's tired of trying to help me. She has been kept at a distance since my plan was decided. Short answers that are satisfactory enough to not get questioned, eating when she was around so she wouldn't worry about my lack of sustenance and nutrition, locking myself in my room for days with no signs of being alive or dead aside from the occasional rustling of sheets and covers, avoiding her like the plague to prevent confrontation about my behavior.
She eventually accepted every half-assed response to her pitiful attempts at starting a conversation, accepted the tension-filled silent car rides, the failing grades, the countless calls from counselors. Maybe it was acceptance that I will always be like this. Maybe it was out of frustration. Maybe she had no energy left to give. I slowly watched the love in her eyes die as her life drained with it. And I could do nothing but sit back and watch. Our relationship was doomed to be nothing more than an exhausted mother taking care of her suicidal daughter that she no longer knew what to do with. I know she loves me, but she will not miss me. I know she won’t. At the end of the day, I am not the lively, happy daughter she wanted to match energies with, even if she says otherwise. She has a habit of lying like that. But I know she won’t yearn for the burden that will be off her back. I love her enough to make sure of that. I just hope she is prepared for my absence.
Nobody will miss me once I start sinking to the bottom of the lake. Any lasting relationships died with the person or were burnt to cinders long before anything meaningful could prosper. All I can hope for is a selfish tear or two, just so this dreadful feeling won't die after I leave. Humanity doesn’t deserve to feel joy when I disappear.
A bitter gust of wind snapped my thoughts. Suddenly aware of my surroundings for the first time in days. Aware of my death grip on the railing, the pins and needles I felt in every limb, the loss of feeling in my face. Beyond the lake was a river winding through a forest. Blankets of soft layers of white twinkled in what's left of the late winter afternoon moonlight. At least the snow is pretty during this time of year.
