By Lucas Martin
“Was it worth it?” my in-patient counselor asks when discussing my suicide attempt last November. “Oh no, no, not at all,” I let out a small laugh, “looking back and thinking about how it affected my family, you know, and my little siblings and stuff, I really regret it.” I’m totally bullshitting, but I just have to tell them what they want to hear. She shoots me what seems to be a concerned look. “What about your friends, or your girlfriend? Did you think about them at all before attempting suicide?” She asks. Ha. What friends? Stupid fucking bitch, my friends don’t exist. And my girlfriend? Right. My girlfriend, shit. I forgot about my girlfriend. I’ve given all of myself to that girl. Goddamn I miss her. She saved my life. Yeah. Yeah. I know what you’re thinking. No, not in a cheesy, romantic, metaphoric way; in the literal way. My girlfriend was the one to call 911 after I overdosed. I’m not so sure that I should’ve let her though. Maybe if I would’ve been successful, she would regret ever cheating on me. Although I’m not really into spiteful suicide. “Yeah, I thought about them a lot too,” I say as I nod my head slightly and force a false grin. All of this counseling and psychiatry bullshit really makes me wanna kill myself for real. Oh well. I just want to get out of this damned place.
My thoughts go astray as I’m finally being released from the prison disguised as a hospital. We’re collecting the items that were brought to me by a variety of family members as we wait for my mom to bring me my clothes from her car. “We” meaning me and my prick of a father. The doctors said I’m not allowed to leave in this stupid, distasteful, orange gown, as if I would have anyways. Walking out to the car seems like walking the Great Wall of fucking China. Mom lights a cig as soon as we start driving. I sure could use one of those beautiful little cancerous creatures. Mom just found out about my smoking habits due to the nicotine that showed up on my blood screening. Those damned nurses are rats. Mom’s not too pressed about it though. She says that it’s my responsibility to take care of my body and make good life choices at this point. I mean, c’mon I am 17 for fuck’s sake. Mom decides to tell me about a woman she met last night. “So, I was outside smoking last night…” She begins. “Oh yeah?” I’m just trying to play along and seem happy, or fixed, or however they all expect me to be coming out of the hospital. She continues on about this lady. “Yeah, there was some black lady out smoking too so I started talking to her. I asked her why she was here and she tells me about her baby’s heroin addiction. Fucking crackhead!” I shake my head in agreement, but I actually feel the exact opposite. I wish my parents weren’t so judgmental. It’s people like them that cause people like me to question the beauty in life, to ponder whether to live or to die, to get addicted to any sort of happiness that makes life worth living, such as drugs, drugs, and drugs. Maybe a little bit of alcohol too. People like my parents will never understand what people like the lady outside and I feel, they will never understand our demons, and they will surely never understand our actions. I decide to stay silent the rest of the way home.
We’re nearing the exit that we need to take to get off the freeway. “Are you hungry, bud?” Mom asks, “I know that hospital food was awful!” Hmm. The hospital food was pretty shitty. “Yeah, can we get Rally’s?” I reply. I’m not hungry at all. In fact, our previous conversation made me sick to my stomach. I just wanna get home at this point, but I guess not eating is a sign of depression, so I’ll just play it off so she doesn’t ride my ass about it. I know these next few weeks are destined to be hell. I’m gonna be stuck at home every damn day that way my parents can watch my every move and make sure I won’t try to kill myself again. What kind of a dumbass would I be if I tried to kill myself again immediately after the hospital? They should at least know I’d be smart enough to wait a bit before trying again. I really don’t foresee myself trying that again. It was awful, from start to finish. I didn’t see any pearly white gates or any hellish flames. None of that bullshit. All I saw was darkness. There was no thoughts, no actions, nothing. I was just nonexistent. That’s a hard concept to grasp but once you’ve gone through it like I have, you’ll understand. On top of all that, I don’t even remember the first three days at the hospital, and the next three were absolute hell. I don’t want to live this life, but I am sure I don’t want to die just yet, and I am damn sure I never want to see the inside of that hospital ever again.
I haven’t formally introduced myself yet. My name is Noel. That’s what my peers call me at least. I guess that’s supposed to be ironic, seeing as how I don’t give two and a half shits about Christianity, Jesus, or Christmas. I believe that man created our “gods” because there is no other explanation for this shitty human existence. Honestly, I’ve never really been the type of person who would think about killing himself. I mean, yeah I struggle with shit just like everyone else but suicide was never really a viable option, until I lost someone to suicide my sophomore year of high school. He was a kid just like me. Always happy. Always smiling, joking, laughing. He was liked by our peers way more than I was. Actually, I was sort of a joke in his friend group’s eyes. They would take pictures of me in the hallway and post them on social media and talk a lot of shit. It was fun to them, but not so fun for me. Besides that, he was someone who you thought would be around forever. No one really knows why he did it, but one night I guess he just decided life wasn’t worth living. He blew his brains out. School was gloomy the next week or so. All the tears and empty hallways were so weird. Ever since then, I guess I subconsciously picked up suicide as an option. Eventually everyone moved on and the world kept spinning as it’s supposed to.
Things were okay my junior year but shit got tough my senior year. Lots of stress. And when I say lots of stress, I mean LOTS of stress. My girl cheated on me right before school started. I started taking college classes early. I struggled with high school classes. All of that shit led to me sneaking out every weekend to go get fucked up to deal with the stress. Partying didn’t even help in the long run though. It just made me fall hella behind in all my classes and I started to give up. Not to mention I lost my job at the end of the summer and I was almost two thousand dollars in debt, which was only growing as I procrastinated getting a new job. I needed a way out, you know? I didn’t have the strength to handle it. I didn’t have the willpower to push through. I know it seems really messed up of me, and I know it was, but I was just too overwhelmed.
It’s my birthday today. Things have been going decently well. I went out to eat with my father and his side of the family and that kinda sucked. All he did was talk shit to me and about me the entire time. I guess i’m just some washed up loser in his eyes. Oh well. I don’t really care what my dad says. I know who I am and what I want to be. He didn’t even go to college and he barely finished high school. He can fuck all the way off. Anyways, I’ve been thinking a lot about my attempt back in November and it’s scaring me. Normally, it doesn’t even cross my mind. It’s as if it never happened. Lately though, I keep having these episodes where I relive the exact feeling of death. I’m not sure why this is happening but i sure as hell know that I won’t be talking to my parents about it. I’m already stressed enough; I don’t need them to ride my ass harder because of this. I think I’ll be alright anyways.
I apologize that I haven’t written in months. I was going through some shit. I made it out of high school. Graduation is tomorrow. I don’t know if I’m gonna make it there. I didn’t get accepted into the colleges I really wanted to go to. I’m really bummed out about that. You know, I really thought I was fixed after the hospital and counseling and psychiatry bullshit, but you know, it was all really bullshit. I’ve been having these thoughts when I get lost. Like, would it be better if I was dead and gone after all? FUCK these thoughts. I’ve relapsed. I’ve been relapsing for these past few months. Well, actually February through about mid-April were alright. Shit came back to me at the end of April. It’s gotta be something about spring. Painful reversions. All the death sprouting back to life, while the living continue to deteriorate ‘til death. We’re all gonna die and there’s no coming back for us, ha ha.
So yesterday, I bought a gun off of some coke addict. It’s a big, bad .500 cal Smith and Wesson. Fucking wild man. The power I hold within my hands right now. I wonder how it feels to end somebody’s life. Fuck I shouldn’t have gotten this. What am I thinking? What the fuck am I doing? I’m sorry. I’m so, so dearly sorry. I think. (Pull it.) Ah shit, I think I. What the fuck do I think for fuck’s sake. (Pull the fucking trigger pussy.) SHUT THE FUCK UP. (Just do it already, I don’t have all day.) I can’t do it man, I can’t, just no. I’m getting my money back. I don’t want this. I don’t need this.
I met up with the guy I bought the gun off of. He already spent my money on drugs so he can’t take it back. I don’t blame him. I’m the dumbass who bought this anyways. I apologize for my little episode a few days ago. Everything is just creeping up on me again and I don’t know how to handle it. I’ve stopped taking my medication because we can’t afford it and insurance is being a dick. My mom keeps riding my ass about college and shit. I don’t even wanna go to college. I just don’t wanna be here at all. Everyday it’s the same shit and everyday it gets worse. Argument on top of argument and I can’t take it. I feel like such a fuck up. I mean, I was a mistake to begin with and neither of my parents even wanted me. It’s just hard. My dad hasn’t bothered to call or text since my birthday. He hasn’t even responded to my texts. I’m really starting to feel like nobody cares and that fucking sucks.
Dad finally called and invited me over for the 4th of July. It was a typical “dad’s side” family gathering event. A bunch of flamboyant racist, sexist, assholes. I hate them all. They always say shit about how poor and worthless my mom’s side of the family is. I did something really fucked up though. I don’t know what to do about it or how I should feel.
Basically, my uncle came up to me and he started saying the most ignorant shit. Asking when i’m gonna decide to stop being a “lazy dickhead” and go to college, if my “piss poor family” can even afford it, when i’m gonna stop being a “pussy little girl” and stop cutting my wrists. Well, I had my gun in my car. I excused myself and went to go get it. I was infuriated. I ran back into the house and i shoved the barrel into his mouth. The only people in the room were my grandma and my aunt. I told him that if he ever said anything like that again, I would paint the walls with his fucking brain matter. I left immediately after. I guess life right now is a test to see if I commit suicide or homicide first.
I received court papers in the mail today. My uncle is deciding to press charges on me. He told my entire dad’s side of the family but mom didn’t find out until today. “Where the fuck is the gun?” my mom asks. “How the fuck did you get a gun anyways, why the fuck do you have a gun in my household, what the fuck is wrong with you?” she continues. She then threatens me with killing me, in a figurative manner. “I’d be better off dead anyways you stupid cunt,” I reply. She storms out of the room and leaves me for the day. I finally leave my room at about nine at night. My house was empty. It’s about 11:30 right now. I drove to the dam. It’s all over now. I can’t go on any longer. I will be leaving this journal for my parents to find and I hope to the non-existent god that they kill themselves after this too. I’m sorry to say that this will be the last entry of mine. To my mother, you were good to me, but you always made me feel like such a waste of space and such a disappointment. To my father and his brother, I hope you both die a slow, and painful death, while thinking about how quickly and painfully my life was ended. It’s finally time that I leave this earth. I wish you all a better life than mine.