The girl in the white room

Little red rivers, flowing softly over skin, onto cloth. She watches, eyes void of any emotion, as her life-force empties from her veins. There are no memories, no running through her life one last time. There is nothing but growing darkness.
But there is a story. A story behind those eyes that will soon close forever, a story that, had the author possessed any mercy whatsoever, might have been different, and she might not be bleeding to death by her own hand.

It started with a room. A simple, small room, where she kept her things. One by one, those things were taken away, sometimes given back for small amounts of time, sometimes gone forever. Slowly, the room grew whiter, emptier. Eventually there was nothing left but her. She stayed there, staring at walls, unable to move because there was nothing there.

After a long time spent alone, there came to be two others. One, she liked, because that girl wanted to help her, protect her, make her happy. She was the pretty crystal. The other, she feared. The third wanted to destroy, to kill, to harm everything and everyone. That girl was a fiery black inferno, filled with hate and rage—but beneath it all lie a hurt so deep it could not be explained by mere words.

The longer they spent together in that white room—half crystallized, half scorched and blistering hot—the more they realized that even though they might not like each other, they needed each other. But things were not well. Outside the room, things were happening. Things that seemed to hurt the girl. The other two could not understand why. All they knew was that whatever it was, they had to stop it. So they did.

That only made the people outside move the room to a bigger white room, one with restraints, pads, drugs to make them unable to move, things they were told would help them, not harm them.

The room began to fall apart.

The longer they spent there, the more alone and isolated they were. Even after they were permitted to leave, they began to wonder, ‘Why is this? Must we be alone? Shunned? Hurt?’ But no matter where they turned to for help, they were either pushed away or laughed at.

‘What a funny joke,’ someone would say when the girls asked for help in their hurt and confusion. ‘You are not like that. Don’t pretend to be something you are not.’

So the girls stayed quiet, not speaking more than was absolutely necessary. Their pain grew in the circumstances, their tears came more often. They found little solace in anything.

Then they found blades.

The wonderful things that made them bleed, that made them forget everything, that made them feel better.

Of course, that, too, was taken away after some time.

With nothing to stop their slow descent into insanity, the speed of their descent grew. But they told no one, fearing they would be told to ‘grow up’, to stop lying, fearing that laughter might once again be directed at them. Clinging to the few who tried to understand them, and telling them nothing but the things they wanted to hear… ‘I’m okay. There’s nothing wrong. But what about you? Are you okay?’

They found few who truly understood them , but even then they said nothing.

These things built upon themselves, kept building and more things were added. The room began to fall, the ceiling caving it, fires burning holes in the walls and floor, a flood drenching everything, rotting it inside and out, turning the once bright, white room into a place of abandonment and despair. The three girls didn’t know what to do, who to turn to. They had nowhere to go.

It was driving them to the borders from where they could not return.

That led them to what they were doing now… cutting, letting bloody rivers run down their arm.

That room was one mind.

Those girls are that fragmented mind.

Those things were what that one, fragmented mind of that girl has gone through—the things taken away were love, acceptance, and the knowledge that someone understood and was able to be trusted. The crystallized part of the room is what she wanted. The scorched part is her fear, anger, and hurt, lashing out at whatever got too close to the boundaries she set to protect herself. The girl herself is nothing but a figment of her imagination… or so she thinks.

That girl is the one who is closing her eyes forever, because no one heard her, because no one saw through the things she said. The few times she said things, they were eventually dropped, the other people outside thinking that it was done and over with.

The depression doesn’t just go away. It stays, growing in painful silence. It stays, growing every minute of every day, drowning its host to the point where they will end their existence to be rid of it.

There is nothing that can be done once their mind has gone over the edge. Forcing them to live is just making it worse.

The girl closes her eyes, finally starting to cry. Not with pain, but with joy. She will be gone… away from the hell she feels is her life. Away from the outsiders who refuse to help her, who think she can do it by herself because ‘she’s strong.’ No, she’s not. She just kept hoping things would get better… and they only got worse.

Is it fair to judge someone who has committed suicide, when it is those same people who judge who drove her to it? It was her own choice. But everyone who has every had contact with her has affected her life.

Her name is the girl in the back corner of the classroom, with her head down all the time. Her name is the friend that holds pain in her eyes, who’s smile is fake but you don’t say a thing. Her name is anyone who has been in the grasp of depression.
Reach out to her, right now. Make absolutely sure she is okay before you keep walking your path of life. Listen to her, talk to her, love her, cherish her. Make her feel wanted. And never betray any trust she has with you.

The girl in this story has multiple personalities. To an extent, I believe everyone does. Hers was just more extreme.

It doesn’t matter.

What does matter is how she feels as she ends her life, and what drove her to it.

Make a difference. She needs it.