Holy Ground (Taylor's Version)

Chapter 1

(TW: depression and suicide)

Dear Diary (I'm not sure if I'm going to stick with this as the opening so, dearest of diaries, don't get used to this greeting)

Things aren't going so great. I want them to be better but the act of fixing them seems difficult and a whole lot of work I'm not sure I'm committed to doing. I read on the internet that writing in a diary is good for people's mental health, and that seems like something obtainable. (Sorry inanimate book for my poor writing skills, I'm a doctor, not an author)

So, how do I start this? I guess I should do some sort of introduction. I'm Meredith Grey- a surgical intern. There's not a whole lot else I have going on in my life. I'm twenty-seven, my only family member is my mother who is-. Well. Talking about my mother doesn't seem like a productive way to start this out. 

Let's start with five things about myself. Five things that I don't talk about with anyone else. 

 first, I think I'm depressed. That's not something I've ever said out loud. I've never actually gone to a therapist. I instead take those online tests. The outcomes always tell me to go see a therapist. But- that's just a whole lot of commitment I don't want to deal with. I haven't killed myself yet so I think I am handling my depression quite well. That's my goal and for the past twenty-seven years, I've been able to stick to it. 

Granted, sometimes I've gotten a little too close to breaking it. I've decided how I would. Originally I thought I would jump off a building. But I'm a doctor, you see, so I know what it takes to die and I just don't trust jumping. There is way too high of a chance that I'll end up alive and severely injured. The easiest way to go would be just to cut my carotid artery. I'd be dead in seconds flat. My only issue with that is there is no flare. It's too- easy. I've considered doing the Sylvia Plath and sticking my head in the oven but ow. For a while, my top method was going to a field with some explosives. I liked that because no one else would be in danger, if I do it right I'd die instantly, and it has a whole lot of flare. But the problem there is I just don't trust myself to do the explosives right. I haven't taken chemistry since my sophomore year of college and I don't want to google how to make bombs. So I've settled on death my freight train. I'll find a train speeding by and jump in front of it. I'll make sure to leave a note to the train conductor that says it's not their fault and I apologize for traumatizing them. 

I fear I've written too much about how I'd like to kill myself. That's not so good. I keep doing this. There isn't anything that's particularly pushing me to try to kill myself, but I really like thinking about it. I'm living on this line of not really wanting to die but not really caring enough if I live. 

The second thing about me, I am incapable of talking about my feelings. It's a gender stereotype that women are supposed to be able to talk about and be in touch with their feelings, but something got fucked up with me. My best friend, Cristina, does this too I think. We talk to each other about our lives but never of anything of substance. The whole idea of doing so makes me wildly uncomfortable. I have this friend, Izzie, she is super good at talking about her feelings. She says Cristina and I are unfeeling because we don't. I know if I were capable of talking about my feelings, I'd tell Izzie that I feel like I fucking hate her. 

The third thing about me, I'm independent in the worst way. Don't get me wrong, I love being independent. I am a very capable human being. I can get my own food and do my own taxes, I don't need anyone else. But I have a problem where I'd rather spend several hours googling how to fix my garbage disposer than having to have that one phone conversation with a plumber to ask them to come, and then to have to awkwardly be moving around my house as they fix it. It's not worth it. It's incredible how far I'd go to avoid that awkward one-on-one conversation about asking for help. 

The fifth thing, I have a thing for my attending. Shit, I wrote fifth. I meant forth. Anyways, Dr. Derek Shepherd. He's got that sort of solemn put-together vibe.  His hair is perfect. I don't know how he does it. It's all curly, but in the way it's supposed to be. He knows how to talk to people. Like there's this second nature thing where he knows exactly what the social etiquette is. He's never too personal or not personal enough. I'm not sure if I have a crush on him or if I want to be him, but all I know is he is perfect. 

The actual fifth thing, I have this painting. A horrible painting. There probably isn't a single person in the world that would say this piece of art is actually good. It's a framed painting of purple cowboy boots. The framed is wooden and beat up, the painting itself is wrinkled under the glass of the frame. I keep it on the opposite side of my room from my bed. When I can't sleep I just stare at it. I've spent hours and hours of my life just staring at this sub-par piece of art and I have absolutely no idea why. 

So there. I did it. I said five things that I've never said to anyone. I want to be better. I want to be a happy, emotionally stable person who lives life. Who can go out and actually be themselves and not have to pretend to be something else. I want to do things, but moreover, I want to want to do things. 

(Hi! It's been a while since I wrote, I keep on writing the first half of the first chapter then losing steam but I feel good about this one. It's not always going to be so dark, I haven't gotten the story all figured out but there's going to be a lot of Meredith working out emotions. Let me know what you think!)