Photograph

I drank the last sip of wine, and set the bottle down. My medicine was failing me, my loved ones had failed me, and lastly, I had failed myself. Tonight was the night, I told myself. I had no desire to stick around any longer. I had only caused myself misery, and made everyone else’s lives complete shit. I was a heavy weight on everyone’s shoulders, a boulder, weighing down until I was dropped so suddenly to the ground. I looked at the fireplace and closed my eyes. I could hear yelling and screaming inside my head, visions of violence played out over and over again, just like they had in the years previous. The thought of suicide was nothing new; more or less a friend I had been acquainted with many times before.

This time, however, suicide was going to win. I couldn’t take it any longer. My sorrows piled up like rubbish in a dump; my once-bright soul turned into an empty shell, moving on this Earth until my last breath. Surely, no one would miss me. I was the girl everyone despised being around. The fat girl. The ugly girl. The worthless one. The mistake. The embarrassment. The crazy one.  The fag. The burden. Simply put, I’m the girl that no one liked. The only person who ever seemed to care about me or love me was my mum. And since I had lost her when I was 18 to sickness, I had no desire to live the rest of my life.

I looked at the clock. It was nearly midnight. My eyes were bloodshot, and I picked up the photograph I had of my mum and I and looked at it. I brought it to my lips and kissed the photo, tears rolling down my cheeks. My pain was overbearing. I needed an escape. I set the photograph down, and grabbed a knife from the kitchen, and sat down on the sofa. I could feel my heartbeat intensify as I pressed the knife against my skin. Vertically, I sliced my arm until blood started to pour out in pulsating rivers. It was hardly enough to do any damage. I looked at the photograph again and I began to sob. I knew what I needed to do, but doing so, was killing me more than the suicide was going to.

I cut again, and again, trying to close my eyes and focus on something other than the photograph. I looked again, staring at my mum’s face. Her smile so bright, full of hope and love. I missed her terribly. I wanted to be with her again. The thought crossed my mind at that very second. What if there is no afterlife? What if I never see her again? I’ll never have any memory of her again. I’ll never be able to curl up with the stuffed bear she had gotten me as a child, or read the mother-daughter book she gave me for my thirteenth birthday. The letter she had written me on the inside of the book.. I’d never be able to read that again. Fear started to build up inside of me. I was beginning to become unsure of this suicide attempt. What if this was all a mistake?

I started to become weak as I searched my kitchen for something to wrap my arm in. I needed to apply pressure to stop the bleeding. But I felt sick to my stomach as blood splattered across the carpets. I grabbed my cell phone, and dialed 911. As soon as a woman answered, I began bawling, begging her to help me. I had a hold of the photograph of my mum, as the woman tried to calm me. My eyes began to close, and the voice of the woman faded into the night.

“Emily.” I heard a voice say. I opened my eyes, and saw my mum standing in front of me. I felt cold, numb, fearful.

“Mum?” I asked, standing suddenly. I was covered in blood, but ran and hugged her as tightly as I could. I could still smell the musk perfume she always wore, and it brought tears to my eyes.

“Emily, listen to me. The paramedics are on their way to help you. You need to stay strong. Please, don’t do this to yourself.” She cried. I saw tears roll down her face, and I wiped them away.

“I want to be with you.” I gasped, stifling my cries. She shook her head and wiped my tears from my eyes, and smiled.

“It’s not your time, my dear.” She replied softly. She kissed my forehead, and looked at me. “You’re still so beautiful, Em.”

“I love you mum.” I said.

“I love you too Emily. It’s time for you to go now. Please, stay strong, my dear. Don’t give up just yet.” She said. I hugged her once last time, not wanting to let go. It took everything I had to release myself from her, and I felt myself falling into bright light.

“Emily.” A woman said. I looked up, and saw a nurse standing above me. I was in a hospital, surrounded by my family, and by nurses. “Emily, do you know where you are?”

I sighed, and looked around. “A hospital.” I replied. The nurse nodded.

“Correct. Do you know why you are here?” She asked.

“It’s not my time to go..” I said. The nurse looked at me, somewhat confused, but nodded.

“You’re going to be okay. We do have to place you under 72 hour hold, however. Your cuts were deep.” I swallowed, and nodded. I laid back, thinking about my mum. Was that Heaven? Or was that just a dream?

I’m 23 years old now, with a beautiful son and a wonderful husband. I’ve had three relapses since that day, but never quite as bad. I have many things to hold onto now. A family, a job, and my life. Whether or not I actually saw my mum that night is still a mystery to me. But I have her to thank for giving me the hope that I needed to keep on. I felt worthless then. I felt like I was wasting time and space being here. I never felt worthwhile. And now that I’m still here, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.

Thank you for reading. If you are having thoughts of suicide or need to reach out to someone, please contact me as soon as you can. I’m here to talk to. I may not be able to solve your problems, but one person can change a person’s life…