Random Writings

"Better"

Wake up, get out of bed, get your meds, eat. Go to group, talk to the others, the other teenagers who are just as crazy and suicidal as you. Eat, color and paint and make elastic bracelets, don't take your life too seriously in here, because here's supposed to be an escape. Eat again, go to group again, watch a movie while eating crappy microwave popcorn, clean yourself up, get a Benadryl, and go to bed.

It's okay, they soothe. It'll all be better. You'll get better.

Wait for discharge; all you can do is wait. Don't try and hang yourself in the curtains, or else they'll booty-juice you, restrain you to a bed while you're kicking, screaming, and crying, pleading them to let you die, let you resign to the fate you should have succumbed to before ending up here. Oh, and then you'll end up with a "caretaker" who has to follow you around, watch your every move, even when you go to shower.

It's okay, she soothes. You'll be off one-to-one soon. It'll get better.

Understand that you're broken. Something corrupted. Something ugly, disgusting, hated, worthless. Something that isn't a person - something that can't feel. Something vile. Stare at the scabs on your arms every day, willing them to not fade, willing them to get deeper, to kill you, to put an end to the life you never asked for. Be reminded of what a failure you are, because your life is fine compared to everyone else's here. You should be fine. You should be happy. You shouldn't know this shit. But you do. You were diagnosed with PTSD and depression, after all.

But don't worry, they say. You'll get better.

Visit with your parents. They tell you they care, but the words come off meaningless. They tell you they love you, and you hollowly repeat the words back to them, having lost any sense of what they might mean; that sense is long gone, broken by the years of abuse, of constant belittling, constant self-doubt and self-hatred, and constant abandonment. You tell them you want to go home, and they sigh, say they want you home, too. But a part of you doesn't believe them. After all, who would want such a fuck-up of a child in their house anyway? Transgender, bisexual, disinterested in sex and relationships after the years of hurt. Spends more time on the computer than in the real world, wakes up trying not to scream because of the nightmares. Gullible as fuck, always getting led back into the same loops again and again, like a fly drawn to a rotting sack of meat. Both things are utterly disgusting, but the fly can't really be disposed of unless you slap it against the tabletop or let it outside, if it's not too dumb to find its way out.

Soon you'll be home, they tell you. Soon, it'll be better.

But how is it supposed to get better when you know that deep down, you're that fly? The reason everyone hurts you is because they're trying to slap you, to end your life so that you'll stop being such an annoyance to them. Your wings are bent, one is broken, so you're limited to just running, half-flying if you're desperate. Once in awhile, somebody stops, pretends to admire the supposed beauty in your wings, but it always turns out to be the same - they end up trying to hit you, because you're too fucking stupid to fly out that window when you get the opportunity. But at the same time, how is it your fault when the windows they do open are almost always covered with those grated screens that a fly like you can't push out a window? It is your fault, though. You should be strong. You should be able to push that screen out of the window, but like the failure you are, you can't.

You've come so far, they tell you. You're going to get better.

This is your fifth time in the adolescent psych ward, and you don't think you're going to get any better. Things are only getting worse, have only been getting worse for the past few years now. As time goes by, more and more people leave. The only solace you've found is the solace in your work, but even now, that probably doesn't matter. What's someone like you worth to that giant basis of people that you work with? Would it even matter if you disappeared? They'd just take over the work for you. Wouldn't it just be better if you stopped working with them, given that you're too pathetic to stop going into the psych ward time and time again, to stop trying to take your life away from yourself because you never asked for it? You're so fucking inconsistent, you worthless sack of shit.

Take these pills, they say. They'll make you feel better.

You don't feel anything anymore. You can't empathize with people as easily as you used to, and when you see someone start crying, it takes a while for any actual worry to kick in. The more time you spend alive, the less time you spend happy. On the rare occasion you do feel something, it's when the tears are welling in your eyes. Why did they all leave me? Why am I so worthless? Why am I even upset over all this, when everyone else says I need to get over it? Why is it always my fault when something goes wrong? Why can't I do anything right? Why can't I just die already?

They've told you time and time again, don't worry. It gets better.

But you're the one waking up every day and feeling your heart crumble to pieces again, the one plodding with heavy steps around the school you don't even want to attend anymore, the one forced to see the markings that everyone left on you, the one living with the guilt over all the pain you've caused everyone like the worthless sack of shit you are.

You just wonder when you'll be able to tell them in your note that it never got any better.