There’s a weight on my mind that only seems to be increasing as time goes by. I first noticed the weight a few years ago, but at that point, it was little more than nonexistent.
Now, the weight is crushing most rational thoughts, and leaving room for only a few crazy, creative ones.
When I was young, I heard from many that I was the happiest child alive. Always telling a story, or a joke, or laughing.
When I grew older, age eleven or twelve, I thought something was very wrong with me. Boys were of no interest, and I began to speak less. I started feeling guilty whenever I said something without thinking much beforehand. Hardly any noticed this discreet change in my demeanor, and those who did brushed it off and ignored it.
In the summer of age twelve, I accepted myself as queer, and told only my two best friends. One stayed with me for many years more. The other, who I had apparently known since I was three, called me on the phone a week later and said that they hated anyone remotely similar to me and that I would go to hell. That ended pretty quickly.
Spring of age thirteen. My sleep patterns grew erratic and unpredictable with no clear cause. One night, I would sleep six hours, and the next, one. I would soon spend many of the sleepless ones drawing various designs and people.
Autumn of age thirteen, I began to wear long sleeves all the time. Nobody noticed.
Age fourteen. Distanced myself from all remaining relationships I could besides my parents, who still thought I was the same as long before.
Summer of age fourteen. My parents had apparently noticed something slightly off about me, so they took me to see a doctor/therapist person about mental health. I lied about everything I was experiencing, and therefore, came up with clean results.
About a week before my fifteenth birthday, I stopped wearing long sleeves. It seemed as though the pressing urge to harm was in remission, and I could enjoy myself.
Two days before my fifteenth birthday, I had no sleep, instead pondering all the possible ways to end it all.
The day before my fifteenth birthday, I experienced my third concussion from a blow to the back of the head. I was sent in an ambulance because I could not move my neck. It ends up I had fractured my skull.
My fifteenth birthday. White lights and beeping noises. I had forgotten everything that occurred in the events prior, and I would soon forget the majority of everything occurring in the next week or so.
The spring of age fifteen. My first attempt. It went by quietly, with only myself left to care, alone in my room, groaning from my stomach and head pains. Crossed that method off my list. It was my first attempt, but it wouldn’t be my last.
I am fifteen, and there is a weight on my mind that only seems to be increasing as time goes by. Every day adds more to my burden, and eventually my legs will go out from under me, and I will be crushed. It seems to no longer be a matter of “if”, but “when”. With this weight, I am nothing but a lost soul, aimlessly wandering thorough the journeys through the mountains of my mind. I fight the snow, and I fight the rain, and I fight the lightning, hoping it will not one day sweep me off my feet, back to the bottom where I began.
I’m writing this while falling backwards, just a call into the void with no guarantee of being heard.
I’m sorry, I just needed to get this off my chest, and I am much more comfortable sharing my story with the world than with those closest to my heart.
Thank you for reading, and my best wishes are with you.
3 comments
Oops, sorry… it wasn’t supposed to be that long. Oh well, I just hope it wasn’t too boring.
Thank you for sharing your story. How are you feeling? Are you still thinking of killing yourself? And do you know why? Is there something you would want that would prevent you from wanting to die?
If I’m being honest? It’s probably just the stress and work and responsibility that I wish to avoid. My father is an alcoholic and my mother is… I think bipolar? She’s never been tested, though I know there’s something quite wrong with her. Though she acts “normal” the majority of the time, there are many times when she does not.
Sometimes, she goes through phases of yelling and screaming and throwing things around the house when my father is out, and I am left to just lock myself in my room and hope she doesn’t remember I’m here. Other times, she is left in such a wreck that I will have to take care of her for days on end, hoping she’ll recover again. I don’t let her out of my sight in these times, for fear she’ll decide to end it all.
My father is trying to get better, and has good intentions. He and my mother would divorce, if not for lack of money to support two households. Instead, he and my mother just attempt to ignore each other whenever they might meet. My father basically raised me by himself. He’s the reason I didn’t break a while ago. He helped me keep my sanity.
I know my reason to go isn’t as prominent or tangible as others’ reasons on this site, but it’s my reason nevertheless. I think, at this point, the only thing preventing my death is the fact that others would have to deal with my absence. Also, though my parents are relatively unique, they still do care for me. I do not know how much, but they do, otherwise they would not have taken me to see a doctor all that time ago to test me for anxiety or something. I don’t wish to burden them even further with my leave.