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Just another angsty teenager.
The Summer That I Died
Dec 16, 2017 6 years agoAt 16, existence was nothing more than a constant agony, for which my remedy was 160 pills and wrists lined with red. The lullabies of sirens and screaming drifted me into a permanent lassitude. I journeyed from emergency room to emergency room, escorted in a helicopter. The world seemed bearable in my nebulous state far above the chicanery and callousness that had become an unremitting trend in today's society. When they were sure that the immediate death had been drained from my body, they sent me up to the loony bin. There was a boy, not older than ten, screaming. The rooms on either side of me were inundated with tears as they walked me to the end of the hall. It was eleven at night, and we were all submerged in an inexorable pain, floating along in our nadirs. I read letters from people that finally remembered to thank me for all that I had done for them. I read letters from people that I had not yet thanked for all that they had done for me. I learned that there is harmony in dissonance, and there is love in hate. I learned that it's impossible to efface oneself with gauze guiding gazing eyes. I learned that there is hell in help. The freckles under my chin disappeared. I had once walked tall enough, proud enough for the sun to kiss me there. Now, everyday was spent in a forced healing out of fear. Ephemeral hopes bubbled hear and there, popping with the locker clicks as everything down to our shoelaces disappeared. We went to classes that taught us anodyne lessons. The boy in the room next door asked to see my arm. I thought he would stop talking to me if he knew how abhorrent I truly was, so I showed him. When I pulled up my sleeve, he let out a low whistle and loved me even more. He didn't know that I hate love. He didn't know how life had deluded me and now love was nothing more than another lie that wasted time; the only love I felt was the word carved into my skin. He didn't know that when we were both free, I would block his number and add it to the bucket of memories that I would try to keep closed. He didn't know that I wouldn't feel the least bit sorry. That summer, I sunbathed in a superfluity of superficiality; mornings were smiles, afternoons were tears, and nights were laughs. If we messed up the schedule, they would keep us locked away in that ineluctable happiness. I memorized the motions and reconnoitered hallways to match my face to the nurses'. I faked fastidiousness and waltzed through a crowd of trudging zombies. I was free far before some of those who had been barred in before me. I was sent to a less loonier loony bin. My parents weren't too keen on having me come home just to off myself again. They did not fall for my happiness there. They did not let me survey, analyze, memorize. They made me work. They made me tell the truth. The gauze came off and I was laid bear to the incipient honesty that came creeping in. It was there that the future seemed propitious for the first time in five years. Summer was not yet over when I looked at the bars from the outside. The closer we got to home, the colder the air grew, but it stayed exasperatingly sticky. I let my fingers trail the humid air with my stories written in permanent red lines reflecting in the side mirror. It did not matter who read them. I was free.
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