i am an adult, now. at least according to the law – i’ve been an adult for quite some time. i’m 23 years old, on my fourth year of university and nowhere near graduation. i’m majoring in something i don’t love because i don’t love anything. i live away from my family – which is and has been broken for eight years, my mother so depressed she can barely hold a conversation that isn’t self-deprecating and shame-laden, my dad so lonely that it’s physically painful to speak to him, my younger brother so, so angry – and my two friends, who are the only meaningful links i have left to this world ( who are strong and have each other, who will remember me fondly ). where i am, i’m alone. in three years i haven’t made one lasting mark on anyone new.
i was depressed as a teenager, but gaining agency and independence seems to only have made things worse. i’m a financial burden on my lower-class family. i’ve wasted every opportunity given to me. i’m going to fail this semester – fail out of college. i’ve destroyed my body. i’m out of time.
this morning, i took a knife with me into my bathroom. i filled the tub with warm water. i cut my wrists and thighs open. i sobbed for forty minutes and pounded my own head into the wall of my shower, but made sure i didn’t wake my roommate, who was sleeping soundly just one room over.
i was too frightened of the pain, and of the nothingness i know death is. and so i’m still alive.
tonight i’m going to try to overdose.