When Hope Gets Lost
Imagine constantly being asked “Why can’t you just pull yourself together?” Being told “You have nothing to be depressed about, you have so much going for you!”, “But you don’t SEEM depressed, you were just laughing an hour ago!” For those struggling with many of life’s abundant obstacles, suicide seems like the ideal compromise for the self-destruction and agony to end. I believe that suicide is not the answer because I’ve overcome it myself. I’ve had to learn in the most difficult of ways that suicide is exceedingly traumatic for the friends and family members. 90 percent of people who have taken their own life have a diagnosable mental disorder. There are countless alternatives for people who struggle with these disorders, long before suicide is even being contemplated.
In reverse, back in 2012 was when the low first started to hit. It was overwhelming, unannounced, never-ending hopelessness, which would last for days. I could hardly sleep at all, my appetite nonexistent. “What’s wrong with you?” I was a zombie. Around this time brings us to the earliest encounter with my pal, the blade. There are so many things that one person can become addicted to; drugs, tobacco, gambling, sports, alcohol. Mine was the wacky sensation that spread through my entire anatomy every single time I lacerated the surface of my skin. Something about the way the wound pulsed with fresh rose-colored fluid. I held Kleenex to my arms till the blood ran dull.
Eventually things would return to their orderly routine, sleeves covered my arms in the hot season of the year. Only once did my mother question my stocky blouse in that fever weather before she discovered what I was trying to camouflage. She was dumbfounded. What would any parent do in this situation, really? To find that their practical infant, being I was only thirteen and hardly even a teenager, was a self-mutilating, boy-obsessed, downright unhappy, psychopath. Whatever you want to call it, anyways. My head was batty and my folks certainly didn’t know what to make of it. Luckily, the hospital’s psychoatric ward kept their composure and handed me the utmost flattering set of clothes that I believe I’ve ever laid my hazel eyes on. (Just kidding.) Eventually, I was issued a room in the small little division. In that was not a bed, but a gurney. I would wait to be assessed on a gurney. On the ceiling was a camera; near the camera was a TV, shielded by a chunky sheet of glass, and then my penitentiary was rather desolate. Under the circumstances, I knew how this would go if I told the truth in during this scrutiny. "Are you feeling so bad that you're considering suicide?" His name was Robert, but he told me to call him Bob. He was older, with round eyeglasses, but he seemed kind, sympathetic maybe. Almost enough to make me talk about the murky obscurities inside my mind. “No, I don’t know why I do the things I do.” Which was true, I really didn’t, I swear. But I just couldn’t control the hurt and the dark. “What do you think might help you to feel better?” His eyebrows furrowed suddenly and he tapped his pen to his mouth, as if he were so focused on my answer, his life depended on it. Cutting. “I don’t know. Right now I’m just hungry and I wanna go home and sleep.” I tried my best to sound sincere as if I meant what I said. Come to think of it, I was famished. “I assure you, Ms. David, I’ll try my best to make sure you can go home with your family. Just a few more questions and I’ll see to it that I retrieve you a bite to eat.” Bob smiled warmly. *
Nevertheless, I was in brick and mortar school and it was around the beginning of November in the fresh school year and I managed to go all summer without placing even a nick in my skin. Bob had entertained the idea of counseling to my mother, in which was thrilled with the objective of finally figuring out what was awry with her daughter’s cranium. Hence, I commenced conventional appointments with Megan....
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