Mickey’s is only a few miles from my place, so it takes no time at all to get here. As I get out of the car and walk toward the front door, I’m overwhelmed with a sense of calm I wasn’t expecting. I knew as soon as I heard those daunting and final words on the phone yesterday, this was the only way.
Once in my room, I empty my pockets onto the top of my dresser and kick my shoes off. My attention latches onto the tiny white pills taunting me from where they sit. The last time I took anything stronger than weed was the night of Lana’s funeral. I got drunk on a bottle of cheap whiskey and railed a gram of cocaine before destroying everything that belonged to her.
And destroying what little self-control I had left.
It was my rock bottom… or at least I thought so at the time.
The next morning when I woke up, I decided all that shit wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t fun anymore, so why bother?
Until today.
Dumping the four Oxys into my palm, I grab the water bottle beside me, untwisting the cap. Without giving myself any time to rethink my decision, I toss the pills back and chug the water. They go down easily.
My phone rings, a number I don’t know appearing on the screen. I contemplate answering it, but in the end, press ignore, and turn it off. Then I open the top drawer to my dresser, moving the clothes until the blade at the bottom comes into view. Grabbing it, I walk over to the bed, sitting down with my back against the headboard.
I stare up at the ceiling for a moment, trying to figure out how the fuck I got here. Where did I go wrong? Was it Lana all along? Was the mistake trusting her? Loving her? How different would my life be had I never known her? Would I still be here with drugs in my bloodstream and a blade in my hand, ready to end it all if it weren’t for her existence?
It seems like a cop out blaming all my struggles on her.
I’ve been fucking miserable for as long as I can remember. Long before she stuck her claws in me. Growing up with God-fearing parents in a bible clutching town when you want nothing to do with their prayer and speech and holy spirit, it’s not for the weak. Going against the grain, going against what they want for you—expect of you—in regards to the Lord and how you should live your life abiding by their book is bound to mess you up.
So, I guess, in reality, it wasn’t all Lana. She wasn’t my downfall. She’s not wholly the reason I’m in this position right now. But she sure as fuck didn’t help. Had it not been for her, maybe I could’ve left this town on my own. Chased dreams. Been something.
Now, all I’ll be is in some poorly written, sad obituary and a tomb stone stuck into the earth that people may or may not visit. It’ll become eroded from the conditions, and if that isn’t the best fucking description of how I’ve become over the years.
The thought of leaving a letter for whoever finds me crosses my mind for all of three seconds, but there’s no fucking point. Whoever it is who comes across my blood-drained, dead body won’t be someone who gives a shit about me. They won’t care about what led me to the decision or how hopeless I felt the seconds before it all ended.
It’s every man for himself.
It isn’t until the salty tears fall onto my lips that I realize I’m crying. The emotion takes me by surprise. I don’t bother wiping the tears away, instead letting them fall freely. It’s about goddamn time I felt something other than unbridled anger. Maybe I’m finally past that stage in the grieving process.
Better late than never, I suppose.
Just this once, I let myself think of who I could’ve been if things were different. If given the chance, who would I want to be? The answer comes easily; I’d be everything I was never able to be in this life. I’d be happy and hopeful; a glass half-full type. I’d enjoy the sunshine and chase the sunsets. I’d do the things that brought me joy. I’d make and play music for those people looking for an outlet, looking for a way to feel, something to relate to and find solace in.
If given the chance, I’d be happy. If things were different, I’d change the fucking world.
But I’ll never be given the chance, and things will never be different. My time’s up, the grave already dug. Letting out a shaky breath, I blink hard, clearing my eyes of the tears that end up falling. With trembling hands, I bring the blade to the skin on my left forearm, pressing down until thick beads of blood start to pool. I drag the blade up my arm a few inches, a choked sob bubbling up my throat at the pain that’s not quite dulled by the pills.
My palms are sweaty, I can barely grip the blade, and the blood is dripping onto the bed at such a rapid pace, I fumble trying to switch hands, slicing my finger open in my attempt. The pressure behind my eyes is nearly unbearable as my vision blurs with the emotion spilling out. With the blade now in my left hand, I press down on the skin on my right forearm in a similar fashion, slicing the skin as best as I can. My entire body is cold as ice, my teeth chattering and exhaustion taking over.
The last thing that crosses my mind as the blade falls and I slump back onto the bed is how I fucking wish things could’ve been different…
15
SEGAN
“Good morning, Segan.” Dr. Edison is seated in her high-back, black leather chair, her glasses pushed up onto her head. Her dark brown, curly hair is down today, sitting just below her shoulders. “How are you feeling today?”
“Been better, but I’ve been worse too,” I reply, breathing out a laugh.
It’s been nearly six months since I took a blade to my forearm. Nearly six months since I woke up, confused and lost, in a cold, stark-white hospital room. Disappointment over waking up was damn near debilitating. At the time, knowing I was unsuccessful in my attempt was shameful. After that, I shut down in a big way.
The first time I met Dr. Edison was during my first stay here. It was right after my attempt, and I was an asshole. I was hostile and closed off, and I wanted nothing to do withgetting better. Despite her very best efforts, I left here knowing nothing was going to change. I didn’t want to behappy.I didn’t want to find a will to live. I didn’t want to learn to live with this new reality.
That was several months ago, and I’m not entirely sure what changed, but when my moods got lower than low again, and the thoughts started seeping in, telling me there’s nothing left for me here, telling me ending it was the better solution, I realized I didn’t want that. I realized somewhere along the way, I didn’t want to die anymore.
I voluntarily checked myself back into the facility I left all those months ago, dejected and hollow. From there, I was transferred to the residential program, where I’ve been for the last two months.
