The Realest Love Story ever told ( A teen fiction story)

Chapter 19

// I'm going to write this in 1st person , which deviates from the rest of the story but I feel like it will give the most impact. WARNING :This chapter also contains themes surrounding mental illness and suicide. I think this will be a long chapter//

I can recall almost every single detail of that day. It sticks in my mind, as a reminder to how far I've come, or how much I failed in some respects. I had showered and my newly cut short hair was damp, almost fully dry. Trying to talk to my friends was getting harder and harder. I kept starting fights with them. The night before I had just ignored everyone and cried myself to sleep. I did that an awful lot back then. I felt like such shit, everything was dragging me down. I felt like such a fuck up, a burden to everyone. The world would be a hell of a lot better without me. Of course I'd had these thoughts before, but for some reason on this day, they hit harder than before.

I tried cutting, maybe it would help. It didn't. It just made me cry even more. Hate myself even more. "This isn't getting better," I thought. "I'm never going to get better." This thought drove me over the edge. I couldn't cope anymore. With my secret double life. With myself, my thoughts. At least my family will have one less mouth to feed. They're always having money problems. They wont have to pay my bus fare .

So I found what I could, pills, blood pressure I think and without hesitation googled whether they could kill me. The internet told me that if i took enough of these pills at once, the shock of a sudden drop in blood pressure would deprive my brain of oxygen causing me to die. I took 24 of the damn things, I lay there waiting to die. I didn't feeling anything, slight dizziness maybe. It's worth noting that Ezra was skyping me at this point. He told Eva to call the ambulance. It took 45 minutes for it to arrive. gave my mother the shock of her life.

She was near tears as I walked down the stairs to meet the paramedics. As they checked me over, I heard my father come home. I could hear him crying. I had not ever experienced that before in all of my 15 years of living. It scared me. A lot.

The rest of it passed in a dream. I was detached from it all. The ride to the hospital, the waiting with my dad, lying to him that I was under stress for exams. Eating in the dark of the long-closed kids canteen. Sleep was something that would not seem to befall me. I lay awake listening to the cries of the small children in the ward. Their parents glancing at me, wondering why I was there. The canister that dangled out of my arm, used to inject me with some kinda of remedy, drew blood, as I twisted it around. Visits from doctors and nurses who came and went. The repetition of "How could you do this to yourself?" looming in the confines of my curtained section of the room. I finally fell asleep sometime after midnight, still wearing my clothes from the day before.

The next day passed with a phone call from my dad and a visit from my mum. With clothes underwear, my laptop and a toothbrush. On my laptop were several worried messages from my friends. I didn't know what to say to them. I had no explanation. After getting dressed, I was interviewed by a Muslim woman, about the state of my mind. I lied to her. Of course I did. I wasn't going to tell her, what was really happening so she could relay it back to my mother. So she could judge me for what she didn't understand. I was discharge. Due to the fact the woman I had spoken to had thought I wasn't still suicidal (I was). I was discharged that day.

The day after was a Monday. The day of my art exam. I spent 5 hours in silence painting a canvas.