• I sit on my bed listening to the rattling coming from my unsteady hands. I try to breath but every attempt comes out short and fast, catching in my lungs before it has the chance to become more than puff of air. I try to blink but it stings, a mess of salt water and black make-up clouds my vision and runs down my cheeks onto my legs. It’s dark and quiet, almost peaceful, but the stillness beats on me, presses down on me. There is no peace.
    Sometimes, life feels very hard. So hard, that it feels inescapable and absolutely nothing will make that long sought after feeling of happiness return again. Sometimes, you’ll grasp happiness just to have it slip from your hands like soap in the bathtub as a small child learning how to clean yourself. It’s times like these when most unhappy souls will go for a walk, watch a movie, or call a loved one to feel happy again. For me, the feeling stays. Tucked away in the fore-front of my mind, reminding me that this warm feeling in my heart will disintegrate soon enough. He’ll be back. He always comes back.
    He comes back and he holds the blade over my wrist, pushing it down. I try to resist, but he’s angry. Angry that I ever believed that I was okay, even for a second. “Don’t forget about me. I’ll always be here.” My arms and thighs sting like my knees after falling off of my bicycle onto the hard concrete, except there are no helping hands to pull me up and encourage me to just try one more time. The once encouraging, loving voices now say with distain to stop being dramatic, get over it.
    They told me to get some help, so I did. You’ll get better, things will get better. I try so hard to believe that. I told myself those same lines every day and I wrote them in my notebook during class while students filed in, avoiding the desks right next to me. Unless, of course, they were feeling charitable. They would sit beside me and smile a fake smile asking me how I’m doing. I’m doing fine, thanks. Now please, leave me alone.
    “They don’t care about you, they only want you to stop being a burden on society. They only want you to get help so that you can stop weighing them down.”
    They told me to get some help, so I did. Have you ever been victim to relationship abuse? No. Have you ever starved yourself? No. Have you ever abused drugs? No. Have you ever abused alcohol? No. Have you ever attempted suicide? No. Question after question. Uncaring eyes, they glance up at me and then down at the clipboard. Some notes are scribbled and then another question is asked. I rub my hands together and glance at the clock repeatedly. At the end of it all, I leave with a slip of paper in my hands. This patient has been diagnosed with major depression and general anxiety disorder. Will the next troubled soul please come in.
    “Just another patient. Just another day. Look at that, look at that paper. See? There is something wrong with you. You’re not normal. You will never be normal. You will never be happy.”
    They told me to get some help, so I did. Another fake smile, deceived by more uncaring eyes. This one typed out every last word I spoke, making me afraid to phrase something in the wrong way. More questions, same as before. You’ll need to cut some of these in half with a butter knife. Take one and a half every day in the morning. Try not to miss a day. I leave with an orange bottle with a white cap in my hand, rattling with every step.
    “Do you really think those pills will make me leave? Do you really think they will make your problems disappear? No. You’re stuck with me, and you’re stuck with your problems. Those pills will do nothing.”
    The medicine numbs the pain. Sometimes, I even believe I’m happy. I feel hope, but then it’s gone again. He’s always there and he always comes back. No therapist or drug will ever make him retreat. He might slink back into the darker crevices of my mind, but only to leap back in full force. Sometimes, I wonder why I even try. The gnawing, constant pain is better than the sudden biting pain. He’s a bitter one with no remorse, and he will suck me dry of any happiness until there is nothing left.
    He makes me wake up afraid to live. He gives me the feeling of drowning while everyone around me is breathing just fine. He takes a toll on me, every part of me.
    Medicine is prescribed to patients to help them. Whether it be with blood pressure, allergies, diabetes, or joint pain, medicine is never meant to be harmful. People take medicine so that they can live happier, healthier lives. I think about the irony of this while I hold the shaking orange bottle with the white cap. This medicine, prescribed to me to help me live a happier, healthier life is now my escape from the pain.
    Suicide isn’t the answer. Then what is? Things will get better. How do you know? People care about you. Then why don’t they show it? There’s so much more to life. Like what?
    What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. He may not have killed me, yet, but every time he returns he takes a piece from me. Selfishly, he rips pieces off of me. For every terrible comment made about my being, a piece is taken. For every time someone stared at me like I was the most disgusting creature they had ever witnessed, a piece is taken. For every friend who left me, a piece is taken. For every lie I believed, a piece was taken. For every time I gain the courage to look in the mirror, a piece is taken. Piece after piece is taken. I may not be dead, but there’s not much left to take. I feel weak, bent over in pain, struggling for every breath. I may not be dead, but I take each step like a walking corpse, searching for its grave so that it may rest once more. I may not dead, but I’m not alive either.
    The pain in my chest increases as I fight for more breath. Even if the mind wants to give up, the body never does. Short gasps accompanied by quiet sobs. Shoulders bent forward, back bent backward. Every dark memory weighs down on me, he tries desperately to crush me. My joints creak and hurt, every part of me feels weak like my favorite stuffed rabbit as a child when it was due for a re-stuffing. My rabbit was crushed and tossed around in love, me in hate. My eyes lose focus and focus again on the bottle in my hand. It shakes violently, rattling quietly. My arms sting as my sleeves rests against them.
    Sometimes, I wonder if this is the life I was supposed to live. I wonder what I did to deserve this. Maybe a past life debt I’m damned to repay in this life. Maybe I’m actually in Hell. Maybe this is God’s plan for me. But those thoughts are dismissed, there’s no one out there looking out for me. No loving, forgiving being encouraging me. I lost hope in the thought of something so wonderful too long ago. I’m alone here. Some lucky souls may have companionship in life, but we all die alone. Whether in bed while asleep, by the hand of another person, or in a hospital bed surrounded by family. We all die alone.
    I remember this as I hold the bottle, trying to breathe and trying to blink away the tears. I remember this as he presses and screams at me. “You have nothing to live for. Do it. Take them all, it’s the only way to get rid of me. Do it.” I remember this as I roll up my sleeve to stop the stinging sensation caused by the rough cloth. I remember this as I take a deep breath, my first in a long while. I remember this as I try to forget everything else that has every burdened me. We all die someday, and we all die alone.