My Fucking Mess Of A Life

I'm not fine.

I've been started on antidepressants. As people have been finding out, they aren't sure whether to say I'm sorry because I'm clinically depressed or congrats because I finally have something to help me. Only one response so far has been the best. Good luck. That's the best response to this, I think. I'm honestly surprised I wasn't started on them sooner, but what I think finally pushed everyone over the edge was that I was going to kill myself on Sunday at dusk. I know it was dusk because I remember looking at the horizon and thinking that the colors looked so beautiful. The blues, purples, pinks, reds, oranges, and yellows. It was breathtaking and it made me think how much more beautiful the world could be without me in it. I had made my mother cry. I was a horrible human being. And over the fact that I wouldn't do my term paper too. I was a horrible daughter. She broke down in tears and ran to the bathroom. I felt like a had been stabbed in the gut. She was under so much stress and I wasn't helping at all. I walked to the door and whispered "I'm sorry". I grabbed my two still full bottles of prescription sleeping pills. It was clonidine. My dosage was low, but I'm pretty sure two whole bottles could kill me no matter what dosage. Just as a precaution, though, I went to a little break in the fence by the highway that only I knew about. I hadn't told anyone about this. It was my own little spot. A few more steps, a leg over the two foot high barrier and I'd be inches away from zooming cars. I had water with me to wash down the pills. No one knew I had them. I stopped taking them when I could sleep on my own, but not before my mom got two full refills. I haven't taken them in over a year. I think everyone forgot about them. Not me. I checked my phone. I had exited out of most of my group chats and I saw that I had a few texts from my mom and dad. My dad. The man who made me afraid of being home. I was terrified of checking but I realized I didn't have anything to fear if I wasn't going home so I looked. They were just what I expected. Threats. Anger. Hostility. Tears were silently rolling down my face. It only made me more cemented in my decision. Just as I reached for the pills, my phone buzzed. It was my mom. She was telling that walking out negates my apology. She didn't understand. The only way to make sure I didn't make her or anyone else cry again was to just get rid of myself. I tried explaining. She said if I did that she would cry forever. I said she had four other daughters and a grandson. She would get over it. We went back and forth until I finally gave in and went home. She said she was cold and her phone was about to die. She was out looking for me. I knew she wouldn't find me. I didn't think anyone would. She said she was going to call the cops. I didn't want that. I didn't want my mom to have cops in her house for her ninth grade daughter again just like my older sister. Only this time, it wouldn't be because I had gotten mixed in with some bad people like her. No. It would be because I was dead. The cops would be there telling my mom what they had found. Questioning her. I wouldn't do that to her. Not yet anyways. I turned around and walked home. I still had the pills. I hid them I'm the same spot that I always did. My main concern was my dad. I was sure I was going to cry if I even just saw him. I told my mom. She made sure he didn't see me. The next day was my psychiatrist appointment. It was mostly just a blur, but at some point my mom left and it was just me and the doctor. She started asking me questions.
"Do you think you're depressed?"
Probably. "I don't know. I've never been depressed so how would I know."
"Do you think your sister leaving could be a factor in your recent behavior?"
Yes. Definitely. "I don't know."
"Have you ever hurt yourself?"
Yes. There are three scratches on my shoulder right now. "I have never cut myself." Not a lie. I didn't cut. I scratched.
"Have you ever cut your wrists or shoulders or scratched them?"
Yes. "I haven't cut my shoulders and I haven't cut or scratched my wrists. " Once again, not a lie. I didn't cut my shoulder. I scratched it. I never spoke a lie. The rest of the session zoomed by, but by the end I was being put on an antidepressant called wellbutrin. It was for severe depression and something else. It didn't matter. I just needed it for depression. The next night was therapy. It was the same thing. Vague short answers. My mom doing the talking. Me interjecting with little points now and then. The only difference was by the end I was talking. I wasn't making eye contact with anyone. I was tired and just wanted to go home. We talked about something called residential treatment centers. I could live somewhere that had teaching geared towards me and my specific learning needs and all the health people I usually saw would be there too. Therapists and psychiatrists. I could see my family sometimes. I liked how that sounded. It would work for everyone. I could get the schooling I needed, (I'm currently failing all my classes except art) and I wouldn't be around to stress out my mom but I wouldn't be dead. It was perfect. I listed all the reasons why I thought it was a good idea. My therapist is the one who brought it up, so she didn't have many objections. My mom was quiet. I asked if she had anything to add.
She said no. I didn't believe her. I asked again in the car. This time I wasn't dropping it. She said she felt like a failure. I felt like I had been hit by a train. I tried explaining that she's not, that I just need some extra help that I can't get here. She's raised four other daughters before me and they all turned out wonderful. That just means there's something wrong with me, not her way of raising children. She said I wouldn't understand until I had kids. I don't think she realized that I kind of already understood. I felt like a failure. Not just to her, but to everyone. I had let everyone down. I didn't want to live. I cried myself to sleep that night, just as I had the night before. Just like I had most nights. I wasn't fine. I'm not fine. I'm not sure I'll ever be fine. The funny thing is, though, if someone asked me, I would smile and nod and say that I was perfectly fine. I'm not.

3/09/17.

A/n So I found this chapter on my notes and completely forgot that I wanted to post it after Empty and I went and posted Mask already so I'm kinda hoping I can just slip this in sneakily. BTW this a/n is being made on 3/29/17. I'm not even sure the date I have for this chapter is correct, I just put the date of when I originally created the note. This whole book is a mess. Kinda like me. Hey, we match! If you want a real a/n, go read one chapters ones.