10-24-2014, 06:07 AM
I wrote this narrative as an assignment for one of my courses last year. This is my first time sharing it to the public. Let me know what you think! Everything in this piece is real.
I cleared my mind and tied the rope to the top shelf of my closet; it seemed sturdy enough to hold my weight of 98 pounds. I was no longer crying; instead, I wore a mask of indifference. I pushed my chair toward the closet; my feet quivered as they attempted to plant themselves firmly on the chair while I placed the noose around my neck. It wasn’t a very tight fit, but I knew that would change as soon as my calmness was swept away in an undertow of melancholy. You’re pathetic. Do it. Do it. Do it. These were the thoughts that circled around my head as I took the leap.
My bedroom floor appeared vast and black, as daunting as what lied ahead. Suddenly it was hard to breathe. My body dangled in midair and my limbs felt like noodles. With my brain receiving less and less oxygen, a random flow of thoughts came to mind: I will never be able to see the rest of the world after this. I will never get to fall in love. I will never see my family again. I don’t want this. What am I doing? I don’t want to die. I want to live. I want to live. I want to live. I panicked and wailed, the rope burning my neck. There was a loud cracking noise that sounded as if the ceiling was tearing open to reveal heaven above, and what happened next I will always be thankful for: the shelf holding me up gave in to my weight and sent me crashing to the floor.
The ground shook beneath my feet once more as thunder rumbled through. What? I thought, it wasn’t thundering two seconds ago. I heard a familiar buzzing in my ear, so I turned around and found myself looking at rows of computers. Where am I? Snapping back to reality, I realized I was no longer that desperate 15-year-old girl, but rather, I was once more that 18-year-old college student that was fortunate to be alive. I looked back out the window but only saw my reflection; I saw a strong young woman who was capable of overcoming anything.
Attempting suicide was the best and worst thing that ever happened to me because it made me realize how unsure I was about what I wanted in life. It took that attempt to finally find peace, or at least hope that it existed somewhere in my mind, and it made me realize that I am capable of feeling it. I still battled depression but I no longer allowed worry and anxiety to seep beneath my skin. People find their own way to survive themselves; when everything comes crashing down on our heads, sometimes it’s the loose bricks that save us, just like it saved me. I have realized that the only person in the world that can help me is myself and solutions to problems are easier to reach than it initially seems. As a society we focus too much on the problems in our lives. Yes, problems exist in our world of imperfection and flaws, but the attempts to reach perfection by killing ourselves internally and not being ourselves at all is not the answer. We let this world take us by the hand and lead us, when we should be leading ourselves into whatever life we choose to lead. There is always a way out of any problem we encounter, it simply takes a little bit of effort to overcome the empty creatures within us; even if they’re hidden beneath nooses and blades.
Empty Creatures
After sitting through another dull hour of my professor droning on about college algebra, I scurried out the door and down the stairs to my safe haven: the computer club’s hangout room. In this low-lit cave of a room, I was normally completely oblivious to the bipolar Miami weather outside. I quickly scanned the room for an open computer, said my hellos to others as my feet shuffled across the room, and sat down on one of the many blue, comfortably-padded swivel chairs. I grasped the mouse, the rectangular screen awakening and casting an eerie glow in my face. In just a matter of moments, my mind was put on auto-pilot and I was completely engulfed in a game. I didn't even notice the others in the room staring at me as I murmured at the computer in rage, a frenzy in my eyes. The other players’ lack of skill and cheap tactics were easily caught on and I began to win the first game with ease. Just as I was about to shove my first victory up the asses of the enemy, I was snapped out of the game as lightning struck near the window. The thunder that followed nearly shook the floor beneath my feet. I curiously lifted one of the window blinds and peeked outside, only to see what appeared to be a middle-aged woman sobbing and posting up tribute photos of a young girl with the letters R, I, and P written in black ink. In that instant, I was no longer that 18-year-old college student solemnly staring out of a window, but rather, I was that 15-year-old girl in 2010 who felt the full weight of the world on her shoulders.
I was a cheeky, strange, and shy little girl, about 5’2’’, with sleek brown hair and braces that felt like train tracks lining my mouth. My large, wide, wandering hazel eyes, that seemed to take up the majority of my face, bulged behind my small, geeky glasses. They sat below trim eyebrows that seemed to curve as a natural extension of my small, rounded nose. My head resembled an upside-down tear drop, getting thinner as it approached my chin. Behind my large forehead was a mind that loved to roam far and wide; I lived in an abstract world of thoughts and ideals produced by my own vivid imagination. Even though I was often surrounded by friends and admirers, there was a haunting loneliness about me; I kept dark secrets and insecurities hidden from the outside world.
Despite always eating a lot of pasta, I was abnormally thin, just like my 45-year-old mother. She had frizzy light brown hair that resembled tumbleweed, which made her look taller than 5’7’’. Her soft face and striking brown eyes held a hypnotic power over others. Regardless of her kind disposition, she was very rigid and harsh in her opinions and had a certain standard of who she wanted me to be. My action-oriented father, a 54-year-old man, always wanted to see progress instead of talking about it. He was taller than my mother, standing at six feet, and had dark brown hair with streaks of white around his large forehead. Both of my parents always pushed me toward success and wouldn't accept anything less; this is the reason why I spent so much time in my room.
The apartment we lived in didn't have much; we didn't have a fancy living room with a large TV, or a dining room to bond and share stories in. We kept to ourselves the majority of the time, except for when my mother would barge into my room yelling commands of what I needed to get done for the day. My room was small and cozy, containing only a bed, a nightstand, and a desk. The twin-sized bed dressed in green, flowery sheets sat in the left corner of the room. Its matching nightstand didn't have a lamp, but instead held a large incense holder where I would burn all sorts of scents throughout the night. I never had a reason to go outside; the green painted wall was my grass, the brown wooden floors were my trees, and my room smelled better than the outdoors anyway. The only element that my room lacked was sunlight, because the only window in the middle of one of the walls was always covered with dark drapes. I didn't mind the isolation; I didn't need the sunlight, for in the midst of all of the darkness, was the glow of the most prominent thing in my room: my computer.
My lustrous, grand computer was perched upon my dark, wooden desk located next to my room’s door. It was a silver and black custom-built monster that was ready to go whenever I needed an escape. I remember sitting in front of that computer for hours or days on end, unaware of society in constant motion around me. With the push of the power button, I was sucked into a different world; I could be whoever I wanted to be. I could be a death-defying adventurer, a heroic astronaut, a fearless Native American, or even an uncomfortable foreigner; this world was a brave world. This machine was my savior from the physical and verbal abuse I received in school; I would get punched, pushed to the floor, kicked, and get called an entire arsenal of rude names that was updated on a daily basis. These bullies couldn't understand the burn, the itch, and the sting of the little things, of the muttered words, that all lead to the mental cuts and burns. My parents would constantly complain of both my physical and mental absence during my childhood, but they would not have predicted the one Saturday night that I will never forget: a time when even my fantasy land couldn't save me.
My weekend schedule wasn't anything special; one could even say that it was depressing. I would wake up well into the afternoon after a long night of playing games, turn on my computer, and sit there wasting my life away on more games until one of my family members told me I had to do something else. This particular day was no different. I awoke from the short, one-hour sleep that I managed to obtain, sluggishly dragged myself out of bed, and unconsciously walked over to my computer like clockwork. My limbs felt heavy and I had gigantic, gray bags underneath my eyes. The light from my monitor made me squint as it bounced from wall to wall, glistening as it hit my window. I became suddenly aware of the sound of the wind outside. The clouds and wind were singing a song so familiar yet unknown to me. I was the sailor and it was the siren; I had to meet it.
I opened my window for the first time on that night. The palm trees outside looked like moonlit silhouettes dancing in the darkness. Similar to a troupe, they swayed, to and fro, back and forth. They were only trees at the mercy of the wind but they looked fuller of life than I could have ever been at that moment. I wished that the wind could take me so that I could float away, weightlessly drifting through the night sky under the stars to be dropped off in some distant land where no one knew who I was. For the third night in a row I found myself sleepless, attentive to following the dancing shadows on the walls of my bedroom. These shadows were the only things I had to keep me company the nights I stayed awake. With a blurred glance at the clock I noticed it was 2 AM, the digital display reminiscent of a ticking time bomb. Nights were usually the only time I had to myself. Days were filled with everything I hated: people, responsibility, and school. At night, the pressures of the outside world were gone, tucked away comfortably in their beds, resting until morning to riddle me with holes like they did every day. I knew the sun was slowly crawling its way back up into the sky like a lit fuse, so my conscience went to work; the seconds felt like minutes, the minutes turned into hours, and the night seemed like an eternity. All I could think was: I’m not okay.
I reached down and opened the small drawer that resided in the bottom left portion of my desk. I scattered things around for a few minutes even though I knew what I was looking for and exactly where it was. I thought that maybe if I acted as if I couldn't find it, I wouldn't need it. I eventually gave in; my hand hovered over the small wooden box that no one ever knew was there. I grasped it, hands trembling, and opened the metal latch on the front. Inside the box were three shiny, metal blades. They were cold to the touch and all I wanted was to focus on something other than my misery. I knew I shouldn't have been sitting there, contemplating whether or not I should cut into my skin, but I felt worthless. I got up and stood in front of my mirror, taking a good look at myself. The person facing me seemed familiar, but its features hid the dark, empty creature that lived inside. This creature was one I could not recognize, but it haunted me with the memories of my past. When my thoughts cleared I realized that the creature I was staring at was me. I stood small in stature and even lower in pride, the cold blade pressing against my fingertips. I pushed the sharp edge against my thigh while staring at myself in the mirror; the voices in my head screamed to make the first slice. I feel so invisible, so broken, and so dead inside, I thought, slowly moving the blade across my skin. I wish I could go back to the day I made that first cut, and I wish I could have cut deeper. How much more of this agony must I endure?
I was a cheeky, strange, and shy little girl, about 5’2’’, with sleek brown hair and braces that felt like train tracks lining my mouth. My large, wide, wandering hazel eyes, that seemed to take up the majority of my face, bulged behind my small, geeky glasses. They sat below trim eyebrows that seemed to curve as a natural extension of my small, rounded nose. My head resembled an upside-down tear drop, getting thinner as it approached my chin. Behind my large forehead was a mind that loved to roam far and wide; I lived in an abstract world of thoughts and ideals produced by my own vivid imagination. Even though I was often surrounded by friends and admirers, there was a haunting loneliness about me; I kept dark secrets and insecurities hidden from the outside world.
Despite always eating a lot of pasta, I was abnormally thin, just like my 45-year-old mother. She had frizzy light brown hair that resembled tumbleweed, which made her look taller than 5’7’’. Her soft face and striking brown eyes held a hypnotic power over others. Regardless of her kind disposition, she was very rigid and harsh in her opinions and had a certain standard of who she wanted me to be. My action-oriented father, a 54-year-old man, always wanted to see progress instead of talking about it. He was taller than my mother, standing at six feet, and had dark brown hair with streaks of white around his large forehead. Both of my parents always pushed me toward success and wouldn't accept anything less; this is the reason why I spent so much time in my room.
The apartment we lived in didn't have much; we didn't have a fancy living room with a large TV, or a dining room to bond and share stories in. We kept to ourselves the majority of the time, except for when my mother would barge into my room yelling commands of what I needed to get done for the day. My room was small and cozy, containing only a bed, a nightstand, and a desk. The twin-sized bed dressed in green, flowery sheets sat in the left corner of the room. Its matching nightstand didn't have a lamp, but instead held a large incense holder where I would burn all sorts of scents throughout the night. I never had a reason to go outside; the green painted wall was my grass, the brown wooden floors were my trees, and my room smelled better than the outdoors anyway. The only element that my room lacked was sunlight, because the only window in the middle of one of the walls was always covered with dark drapes. I didn't mind the isolation; I didn't need the sunlight, for in the midst of all of the darkness, was the glow of the most prominent thing in my room: my computer.
My lustrous, grand computer was perched upon my dark, wooden desk located next to my room’s door. It was a silver and black custom-built monster that was ready to go whenever I needed an escape. I remember sitting in front of that computer for hours or days on end, unaware of society in constant motion around me. With the push of the power button, I was sucked into a different world; I could be whoever I wanted to be. I could be a death-defying adventurer, a heroic astronaut, a fearless Native American, or even an uncomfortable foreigner; this world was a brave world. This machine was my savior from the physical and verbal abuse I received in school; I would get punched, pushed to the floor, kicked, and get called an entire arsenal of rude names that was updated on a daily basis. These bullies couldn't understand the burn, the itch, and the sting of the little things, of the muttered words, that all lead to the mental cuts and burns. My parents would constantly complain of both my physical and mental absence during my childhood, but they would not have predicted the one Saturday night that I will never forget: a time when even my fantasy land couldn't save me.
My weekend schedule wasn't anything special; one could even say that it was depressing. I would wake up well into the afternoon after a long night of playing games, turn on my computer, and sit there wasting my life away on more games until one of my family members told me I had to do something else. This particular day was no different. I awoke from the short, one-hour sleep that I managed to obtain, sluggishly dragged myself out of bed, and unconsciously walked over to my computer like clockwork. My limbs felt heavy and I had gigantic, gray bags underneath my eyes. The light from my monitor made me squint as it bounced from wall to wall, glistening as it hit my window. I became suddenly aware of the sound of the wind outside. The clouds and wind were singing a song so familiar yet unknown to me. I was the sailor and it was the siren; I had to meet it.
I opened my window for the first time on that night. The palm trees outside looked like moonlit silhouettes dancing in the darkness. Similar to a troupe, they swayed, to and fro, back and forth. They were only trees at the mercy of the wind but they looked fuller of life than I could have ever been at that moment. I wished that the wind could take me so that I could float away, weightlessly drifting through the night sky under the stars to be dropped off in some distant land where no one knew who I was. For the third night in a row I found myself sleepless, attentive to following the dancing shadows on the walls of my bedroom. These shadows were the only things I had to keep me company the nights I stayed awake. With a blurred glance at the clock I noticed it was 2 AM, the digital display reminiscent of a ticking time bomb. Nights were usually the only time I had to myself. Days were filled with everything I hated: people, responsibility, and school. At night, the pressures of the outside world were gone, tucked away comfortably in their beds, resting until morning to riddle me with holes like they did every day. I knew the sun was slowly crawling its way back up into the sky like a lit fuse, so my conscience went to work; the seconds felt like minutes, the minutes turned into hours, and the night seemed like an eternity. All I could think was: I’m not okay.
I reached down and opened the small drawer that resided in the bottom left portion of my desk. I scattered things around for a few minutes even though I knew what I was looking for and exactly where it was. I thought that maybe if I acted as if I couldn't find it, I wouldn't need it. I eventually gave in; my hand hovered over the small wooden box that no one ever knew was there. I grasped it, hands trembling, and opened the metal latch on the front. Inside the box were three shiny, metal blades. They were cold to the touch and all I wanted was to focus on something other than my misery. I knew I shouldn't have been sitting there, contemplating whether or not I should cut into my skin, but I felt worthless. I got up and stood in front of my mirror, taking a good look at myself. The person facing me seemed familiar, but its features hid the dark, empty creature that lived inside. This creature was one I could not recognize, but it haunted me with the memories of my past. When my thoughts cleared I realized that the creature I was staring at was me. I stood small in stature and even lower in pride, the cold blade pressing against my fingertips. I pushed the sharp edge against my thigh while staring at myself in the mirror; the voices in my head screamed to make the first slice. I feel so invisible, so broken, and so dead inside, I thought, slowly moving the blade across my skin. I wish I could go back to the day I made that first cut, and I wish I could have cut deeper. How much more of this agony must I endure?
Dark thoughts and emotions swarmed in at that moment. My chest felt like a black hole sucking in all of my internal organs. I collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air as I cried. The voices in my head were so loud that I couldn't even hear my own desperation: You’re worthless! The little hope you have left is all a con! No one will ever love you! My head started throbbing, as if there were miniature earthquakes in my mind. “Stop,” I yelled, but the thoughts kept drowning out my ability to speak.
I inched toward my computer, opened up the messaging program Skype, and checked for anyone online to talk to. “No one is,” I muttered. I felt like there was nothing I could do to escape my thoughts, so I made a quick decision that I did not foresee. I stared at my closet; it had two large, white doors held together by a white wooden frame. It was an off-white color, almost as if it had a tint of yellow. Once I opened the doors I could see that it was jam-packed with clothes, shoes, and board games. Is this really where I want to do this? I thought. I hastily grabbed a piece of rope I had hidden behind my bed from previous plans and tied it into a knot that was all too familiar: a noose. Though my body spat and churned, my mind yearned for the deathly quiet. I didn't necessarily want to kill myself, but I knew I held no true attachment to the thought of living. I simply wanted to make the pain in my chest stop and go away.
I inched toward my computer, opened up the messaging program Skype, and checked for anyone online to talk to. “No one is,” I muttered. I felt like there was nothing I could do to escape my thoughts, so I made a quick decision that I did not foresee. I stared at my closet; it had two large, white doors held together by a white wooden frame. It was an off-white color, almost as if it had a tint of yellow. Once I opened the doors I could see that it was jam-packed with clothes, shoes, and board games. Is this really where I want to do this? I thought. I hastily grabbed a piece of rope I had hidden behind my bed from previous plans and tied it into a knot that was all too familiar: a noose. Though my body spat and churned, my mind yearned for the deathly quiet. I didn't necessarily want to kill myself, but I knew I held no true attachment to the thought of living. I simply wanted to make the pain in my chest stop and go away.
I cleared my mind and tied the rope to the top shelf of my closet; it seemed sturdy enough to hold my weight of 98 pounds. I was no longer crying; instead, I wore a mask of indifference. I pushed my chair toward the closet; my feet quivered as they attempted to plant themselves firmly on the chair while I placed the noose around my neck. It wasn’t a very tight fit, but I knew that would change as soon as my calmness was swept away in an undertow of melancholy. You’re pathetic. Do it. Do it. Do it. These were the thoughts that circled around my head as I took the leap.
My bedroom floor appeared vast and black, as daunting as what lied ahead. Suddenly it was hard to breathe. My body dangled in midair and my limbs felt like noodles. With my brain receiving less and less oxygen, a random flow of thoughts came to mind: I will never be able to see the rest of the world after this. I will never get to fall in love. I will never see my family again. I don’t want this. What am I doing? I don’t want to die. I want to live. I want to live. I want to live. I panicked and wailed, the rope burning my neck. There was a loud cracking noise that sounded as if the ceiling was tearing open to reveal heaven above, and what happened next I will always be thankful for: the shelf holding me up gave in to my weight and sent me crashing to the floor.
The ground shook beneath my feet once more as thunder rumbled through. What? I thought, it wasn’t thundering two seconds ago. I heard a familiar buzzing in my ear, so I turned around and found myself looking at rows of computers. Where am I? Snapping back to reality, I realized I was no longer that desperate 15-year-old girl, but rather, I was once more that 18-year-old college student that was fortunate to be alive. I looked back out the window but only saw my reflection; I saw a strong young woman who was capable of overcoming anything.
Attempting suicide was the best and worst thing that ever happened to me because it made me realize how unsure I was about what I wanted in life. It took that attempt to finally find peace, or at least hope that it existed somewhere in my mind, and it made me realize that I am capable of feeling it. I still battled depression but I no longer allowed worry and anxiety to seep beneath my skin. People find their own way to survive themselves; when everything comes crashing down on our heads, sometimes it’s the loose bricks that save us, just like it saved me. I have realized that the only person in the world that can help me is myself and solutions to problems are easier to reach than it initially seems. As a society we focus too much on the problems in our lives. Yes, problems exist in our world of imperfection and flaws, but the attempts to reach perfection by killing ourselves internally and not being ourselves at all is not the answer. We let this world take us by the hand and lead us, when we should be leading ourselves into whatever life we choose to lead. There is always a way out of any problem we encounter, it simply takes a little bit of effort to overcome the empty creatures within us; even if they’re hidden beneath nooses and blades.
