The Serpent of Love

25. Depression

Trigger warning!

April 3, 2019

Life sucks. I don't wanna live this life like that. Please someone kill me. I have razors in my bathroom... I slide my fingers over my clean wrists. Would it hurt too much? Maybe I'd get addicted? What if it made me throw up or what if I'd die? But that's what I want, right?
I'm in my room, lying on my bed, my earphones in, trying to block out the world. But it doesn't help. I can hear mom yelling at my dad from the phone and I know he is yelling back. He's a jerk. He hasn't sent us the money he should and while mom insists that we can live without it every time I ask, I'm not stupid and I know we can't. I've listened to them yelling for hours now. I feel like all the air has been sucked out of my lungs, like my body would be my own prison, like everything is pressing on me and I can't breathe normally. If I'd be in Riverdale, I'd just leave. But I have nowhere to go in here except for Taylor's, but his parents are strict and I'd be so embarrassed to tell them why I need to stay over.
I need to call Jughead. I take my phone from beside my pillow and quickly dial his number, hearing the voices around me so much better without the music on. He answers on the second I call him. "Hey, baby. What's up?" he asks.
"Hi," I say quietly, wiping my tears away. He doesn't need an answer, he can hear it himself.
"Betts, are you okay?" he asks with a sigh.
"No," I cry. "I don't have anywhere to go and they won't shut up."
"Do you want me to talk to them? You just need to go and give-"
"No," I say. "She finally got him on the phone and I know we need the money..."
"Betty," he sighs, knowing I blame myself. "It's-"
"Yes it is," I breathe out. "I'm sick and now I'm even fucking more sick and I have these thoughts about killing myself and I can't even breathe normally," I cry.
"You... what? Betty?" he asks in shock.
"What?" I choke out and suddenly the air is really gone. I start coughing really hard and put the phone down for a moment and sit up, resting my head on my hands, elbows on my thighs. I take deep breath and when I'm about calm, I take my phone again. "Sorry I called you, you can sleep now," I murmur.
"No I don't want to sleep now," he says. I can hear he's crying and I can hear he's mad just from his voice. "Why haven't you told me you had suicidal thoughts? Have you told your therapist?"
"No, I keep away from the subject," I admit quietly. "I didn't tell you, because I didn't think it was that bad..."
I hear him calming himself down with a deep breath and then he starts talking to be about it.

April 6, 2019

"Why won't we do something different today?" Mr. Glass asks.
"Like what?" I ask. I'm sitting on the couch I've been sitting on every week in three months, my legs up on it too, crossed as always.
"I want you tell me about your life, not only the situations. I know you moved here, you miss your friends and family, but I need to know your thoughts, feelings-"
"Jughead called you," I say.
"I planned on doing it anyway. The last time I did the test for you it was in January, the second time, remember?" I nod, lowering my head. "You've gotten better with the anxiety, but you have another problems. And I'm here to help you, you need to trust me," he explains softly.
"I do trust you, I just..." He waits for me to continue. "I have so fucking many problems and I can't talk about all of them."
"Why not?" he asks, already opening me up.
"Because they're personal," I say and smile a little at myself, looking at him. He raises his eyebrows with a slight chuckle and shakes his head. Dr. Glass is like 37 or something. He's really fun and makes me feel like I'm talking to a friend, bit I'm still embarrassed to tell him all of it.
"You know, most people come here and pay a lot of money to talk to me, so they open up to me on the first day. You still haven't after 14 sessions. Tell me what's wrong."
"I just don't open up to people easily," I say. He nods, obviously noticed that. "And I don't like people, they destroy everything and each other and soon we'll just all die because of ourselves so what's the point," I say and then sigh, thinking about it again.
"And do you sometimes feel like you'd want to end it all?" he asks.
My eyes go up to him. "I wasn't opening up, I was just telling you why I hate persons..."
"Answer me, Betty," he sighs. I swallow and nod, my eyes wondering around on the ground, feeling uncomfortable.
"Yeah, I've thought about it."
"How many times in the last week have you thought about it?" he asks.
"I don't know..." I say honestly.
"Every day?" he asks. I look up at him now entirely and nod slowly.
"When do you usually think about these things?" he asks.
I frown. "In the nights. And at school when I'm alone, which is most of the time."
"Do you ever wake up thinking that?" he asks.
"When I have a bad day," I say, not confessing that I have a bad day every day.
"Right," he sighs. "Have you thought of some specific ways to attempt a suicide?"
"Um, I don't know, I just think about it I guess," I murmur. He knows it's not true, but nods and moves on questioning me.
"Have you tried something?"
"No," I say. Almost.