i need it to end

When I was in senior school I wanted to die; I don’t mean that in the typical “too much work, not enough freedom” way… I mean it, I really wanted to die. I’d written the perfect note, I had a million painkillers all crushed up ready to mix with some water and down. I didn’t even care what anyone said that day at school ‘cause I knew when I got home it would all be over. Lunchtime arrived and I only had two lessons left until the end of the day; double English. I loved English ‘cause no one really bothered me in it. For some reason a class discussion began on suicide. I felt like someone had read my mind and wanted to make fun of me one last time. The discussion went on and on until it got to the question of “what’s the easiest way to do it?”, naturally this grabbed my attention. Someone mentioned painkillers – they stop pain while you’re alive so surely they can’t pain to overdose on them. But I was wrong. One girl seemed to know everything there was to know about medication, apparently painkillers don’t kill you… not in the way you’d want a suicide to kill you anyway; they’re slow and painful, it can take years if you’re that unlucky. Of course my mood dropped upon hearing that, I’d spent days getting ready to die and in 1 minute that dream was crushed. I got home and threw all crushed painkillers in the bin. And grabbed my scarf from my shelf. I tied a noose around the rail in my wardrobe, stood on a chair and tied the rest of the scarf around my neck. This was goodbye. Until my mum knocked on my door. I couldn’t let her walk in and see me trying to kill myself. So I untied the knot… opened the door and pretended that my end wasn’t just interrupted. I joined my family for dinner and tried not to think about anything. I woke up the next day and got ready for another day of bullying and hatred at school. After I got home my mum left for the shops. I don’t know why I did it but I did, I went and rooted through her bedside table drawers, and immediately wished I was dead already. There it was, my tear stained suicide note. She spoke to me about it, well attempted to. I felt so weak, all my secrets, everything I hate about myself, she now knew. She knew I was cutting long before but only now did she realise it wasn’t a scream for attention. Next morning I wasn’t forced to go to school, instead I was forced to go to the doctors. I don’t blame my mum, she was as clueless about what to do as I was. My mum sat in the waiting room while I got spoken at by some doctor. He then transferred me to an overpriced psychologist. One hour every other day, 70 euros down the drain every other day. And so I said I was okay. I said I was better. I told them it was just a phase. And they all believed it. I hid my scars better, smiled more, went out more. And they fell for it all. I’d fool around with 25 years olds when I was just 16 because the fake me could be whatever I wanted to be. My feelings were hidden so why shouldn’t my identity be hidden too. And now here I sit, unemployed, a uni drop out, avoiding calls from my family, lying in bed for hours on end. It sucks to realise it, but my life used to be so much better. I miss having people who I could call friends when in reality they were just drinking partners. I miss lying about who I am, being able to be whoever I want to be. I miss going out until 4am flirting with guys twice my age. I miss having to tell my mum I was going out for a meal with some friends or that I was staying over at so-and-so’s house just so I could go out and drink away everything I felt. I miss going to the corner shop to buy a bottle of whisky to help me sleep at night, or a bottle of rum to spike my drink every morning to get me through the day, or a bottle of vodka to fill my water bottle up with so I didn’t care about the bullies. I miss being so drunk all the time that I was numb. I miss being numb. I hate caring. I hate crying. I hate feelings and emotions. I hate who I am.