4/20/10: “it is such a long story i’m not even going to try to bother you with it, but it has a very bad ending, i’ll tell you that”

I stopped over at Scott M——-’s today. I had five pages, printed out, stapled together, in my bag. I was going to give them to him. They were the pages of the entry I wrote right after that whole night with Brandon happened. I wasn’t expecting him to read it and feel bad, I wasn’t expecting anything to change, I was just expecting him to read it in front of all of his buddies, and laugh. Laugh at how pathetic, emotional, and weak I am. I pictured it, him sitting in the middle of his couch, just flipping through the pages and reading off every word in a sarcastic tone, just throwing it on the floor after he was done. That’s probably what would happen. I went over there tonight, I was pretty fucked up honestly, took a few propranolol, read that you weren’t supposed to mix it with alcohol, so of course I polished off the rest of the bottle of Absolut as a mixer. It’s the haze, I remember that feeling.
I remember wanting to go over, to take him to his room alone, tell him I had something really funny to tell him, no, really funny. That my whole case against Brandon had been dropped, most likely because of him and Emily not getting their shit together with their alcohol-fueled statements. Congrat-your-fucking-lations, you are the criminal dream team. You both allowed someone to get off of aggravated domestic assault without so much as a slap on the wrist, you two really are something, I gotta tell ya. I was over there for about an hour, waiting for an opportunity, never sitting down. After waiting a certain amount of time, I told him I had wanted to talk to him about something, and I just told him I was going to take off. Without any other words, I left the house, him calling after me. I went out to my car, drove off, I got a text message from him telling me to come back. I replied I had only come there in the first place because I wanted to talk to him in private about something, but he was too busy, so just forget it. He asked what this was all about, to which I replied, “I told you to forget it”. I guess he didn’t understand so he sent another message and then called a little bit after. I didn’t answer either. I figured it is no use now, so why bother even responding.
I have a plan.
It’s a pretty good one I think.
See, I’m gonna go see this prosecutor, this R— guy, who thinks I am so worthless, who thinks it is acceptable to beat on tiny women in a public place. I want to know, I want him to tell me to my face, why he thinks I am so worthless. Why I deserve to be treated that way. I’m not looking for legitimate answers, because I know with the swine that are court slaves that I will never get any. I can only try to get him to look me in the face, and tell me what makes me such shit, what makes me so easy to mistreat, what makes it legal for people to twice my size to conduct a thorough beat down on my skull. I am truly interested to know, because I have been wondering this for many years now.
I always knew I was a strange person. One thing that sticks out is me going out to the side of the house, my dad’s, when we all still lived in it together. By the master bedroom window, next to the big mulberry tree, the one with the hollowed out stump in the middle… It was winter, there was at least a foot of snow on the ground. I went out there in thin snow gear, and I picked a spot, nothing particularly special, and I just fell, flat on my back. I stared up at the white and featureless sky for a long time, who knows how long. I stayed there for such a long time, my mom and sister, whoever else was there at the time, not noticing my absence. I laid there, feeling the cold creep up the layers of my skin and muscle, I wondered how long it would take to freeze to death. Unfazed by the odd situation, I still laid there for a while. Eventually, as the numbness had taken over, my frigid limbs stood themselves back onto my feet, and I walked inside. My mom, with an expressionless face, looking downward, just felt my skin and removed the my coat and snow pants, commenting roughly on how I had “been out there for too long”. I don’t know why, but my mind always brings me back to this.
My plan…
Here it is, I’m going to go into this prosecutor’s big office he has in the landfill that is downtown L——. I’m going to go in, looking nicer than usual, done up. I’m going to sit in whatever shit waiting room he has, no matter how long it takes, and I am going to see him face to face eventually. When he does, when we are alone, I am going to ask him the questions. I know he is going to give me bullshit answers, and most likely going to comment on how this has happened many times before, in cases much worse, and how that is just the way things go sometimes. That I just have to dry my tears and deal with it, because that is the way the world works. I am well aware of how the world works, I have had a bit of a clue for some time now. I guess I just thought that it would get better. Wrong. Silly me, stupid girl. I know he is going to finish up whatever short shit session that we have, tell me that I can follow up with some other legal process, that would probably take a few more months to even get started, to shove false hope down my throat, just to shuffle me out of his office faster so he can have a long lunch. I know that I will mean nothing to him, he has to have that attitude to hold the position he does, I mean, how else could he do things like this to people? I can’t think of any other way. People like him have to look at human beings as numbers, part of an equation, rather than people. I admire him for being able to hold onto such insensitivity, that would take a lot of willpower, to treat people worse than their attackers in their rejected cases. My concussion has gone away, the bruises, the tinnitus, most of the anxiety I guess, the scars on my neck and hands are still there I guess… but this will have the lasting effects. So yes, R— whoever the fuck you are, I strongly admire you for the job you’ve done, I can honestly say I would have never been able to do it better myself, and boy, you are in for quite the surprise later this week. After I hear whatever excuses he has for me, whether they are valid or not, as he is trying to coerce me out of his space, I am going to tell him this exactly: I want you to look me right in the eyes…
Then, I am going to take a nice concoction of 26 propranolol pills, whatever Klonopin I have lying around, and leftover tonsillectomy Vicodin, and I am going to mash it all between my molars so it is digested dangerously faster, and swallow it all dry. There is going to be a nearly nauseating bitter powder in the back of my throat, though I doubt I will care that much about it at that point. I am going to look him right in his yellow bastard eyes as I do this, and smile right after I’ve swallowed. I can’t say for sure what the outcome is going to be, I guess the one that I am hoping for the most is my own death. It would be easier that way, despite my fear of the unknown. Curled up on the floor today, talking with M———, I told her that all I could think about at that moment was Mike, the guy who jumped off of the parking structure in L——. When she asked why I was thinking about this, I told her that it must have taken a lot of guts, a lot of bravery. She replied that she didn’t think his act was brave at all, that it was desperate, and afraid. I know she’s a psychiatrist and she is supposed to say all this shit that is supposed to put me off the whole suicide thing, but I don’t think when it comes down to it that anyone can deny that offing yourself would be the single most bravest thing you would ever do. To not know what is coming to you, to be indefinitely ending your own life, I would imagine that would take more courage than any other decision a person could make in their entire life. In that way, Mike has always stood out in my thoughts.
As I was talking to M———, after I had paged her, her yelling over her children, I thought about how ridiculous all this talk was with her. Especially the fed up tone of her abrupt “bye”. I was a bit dumbfounded at the end of the conversation, just kind of staring at my phone’s blinking background as the call ended. I feel as though she it too used to me, too numb to my “threats” or talks of killing myself. I almost feel as if I carried this out, I would be proving something to her, that I am not a chicken shit, a *****, a weakling, that I am brave enough to do this, to finalize. She has always been pretty fair to me, I guess it is about that time, killing time. Time to show her what minerals I am made out of… star stuff… Funny that all this shit is going down right as she is about to leave, guess I will send her off with a bang. I’m not going to do it tomorrow, because I already have ten hours of class, I’m not trying to fuck with that. It will be nice, I will learn, take the class notes as usual, email them to the instructor. Then I will go home, maybe try to pick up my room a little bit, play with all of my pets, organize my things, maybe play some Xbox 360, get ready for tomorrow. Then I will have a good work out before, early morning, go in, and wait until it is show time. I think this R— guy will really get a kick out of it all, the ultra violence. Something tells me that he is the kind of guy who really gets a hard on for that kinda shit. Yup, me and R— are going to have a memorable time, something for him to tell stories about, to laugh about with his buddies, long after I am (hopefully) dead, locked up, let loose in the wilderness, whatever the fuck they do with crazy people nowadays.
I honestly hope they wouldn’t pull that shit again, like the last time I had a date with a bottle of Robitussin, my dad’s antidepressants, and some wine. That psych or whatever was a total douche, he just walked in all perturbed, like hey you fuck, you bother, can’t you just end it instead of wasting my goddamn time with your teenage emo girl bullshit? I think that whole mental interview took about five minutes. Nice. I’m sure they are sick of people like me, looking at us like suicide failures, hahaha, like dude, if you fail at killing yourself, what the fuck good are you at anything else? To your face, they would probably disagree, say that there is hope and all that bullshit, but I know people’s senses of humor, and I know that not all of them would be so positive. I wonder if they have bets about that shit, it wouldn’t surprise me. How much easier would the world be, if everyone was just up front, no superficiality. I wish some aid would have come to my bedside and just made fun of me relentlessly for the half-assed suicide job I did. I would have laughed with him, I promise.
Please… take this…