I feel alone, but not the kind of lonely where I have friends who ignore me. I feel as if I am trapped in a crowded room, full of people who used to make me smile. But, now, they don’t notice me. I can stand in the center, scream at the top of my lungs, but none of them would notice.
I feel empty inside. Like an abandoned building, rotting away and about to collapse. No one wants to be around, but when someone does come around, it’s just as a bet or to toy around.
I have no family that cares anymore. I got pregnant at a young age, 17. My mother kicked me out a month after I gave birth. My grandmother hates me because she judges by skin color.
I feel like crying at all times. I am an ant, surrounded by Giants, trying to step on me when they see me. This feeling is inescapable. I try to block it out, but, alas, it always comes back.
I am on depression medication, well, I’m supposed to be. I quit taking it. Stupid of me, right? Wrong. I quit after taking it for two weeks because, on my sister’s birthday, April 8, I attempted suicide. I down 22 pills. Sleeping pills, ibuprofen, naproxin sodium, acetaminophen, Tylenol, etc. I passed out on my bed, with my daughter asleep in her crib.
I woke up the next day, thinking “why am I still here?! Why can’t I be gone?” Then, it hit me. I ran to the bathroom, screaming for my life. I kept throwing up yellow foam as if it eroded my esophagus. But no one was home. No neighbors could hear me. I was left there, on the cold tile, alone, crying and screaming in pain.
I knew I shouldn’t have taken those pills. I’m not supposed to have medicine because of high levels of alkaline phosphatase in my blood. But, I still took them, knowing what could happen to me.
I WANTED to be gone. I still do. I’m in a room, and it keeps getting darker and darker. The room keeps getting closer and closer to squishing me.
Everyday, I feel like killing myself. As if this pain is a never ending circle. I want to be gone from here. Attempted 4 times to commit suicide, and, unfortunately, each attempt failed. I keep a pill bottle under my bed. The bottle has random pills in it. I don’t care what, or how much, I take. As long as I’m gone and don’t wake up the next morning.
I don’t like who I was, who I am, and who I’m becoming. I’m becoming a monster in my own personal hell that I have most carefully crafted with my own two hands.
It’s as if I’m falling down a spiraling staircase. And the bottom is where I want to be.