TW // suicidal ideation

      My mentors in life include Wednesday Addams, Edgar Allen Poe, and the clerk at the 7/11 on Broadview. All of which have led me to believe that my life is worthless, I am worthless, and I am okay with that. Words of woe always had a way of holding me hostage.  I should've known when my therapist told me blue was always my most flattering color. 

       I’ve had more therapists than I can count on two hands. They say the same thing, “You have a problem.” It rips through my head like a boomerang only to come back to my mouth with the response, “I know.” I know that I appear slightly malnourished with eyes that drag like cigarette smoke. I know my hair appears as if it's been through a paper shredder one too many times. I know during school hours I'm not allowed with children under 10, but that's beside the point. I have a problem and that is completely fine. 

        I’ll cut the tangent and let you know that I plan to kill myself. Yes, I plan to take the coward's way out and be condemned to hell for my sins. I get it. Suicide is selfish, well it can be selfish but  ironically that is not my problem. I think seventeen is a wonderful age to die, nobody relies on me. See it would be selfish if I was forty living with three children and a husband, that is when suicide is selfish. As for my case, the only people who’d care are my thirty five ex-therapists. But I’d like it to be rewarding for them. It would prove them right, I do have a problem. 

        The day is Monday, oddly enough my favorite day of the week. The day that slaps you in the face just enough to keep you awake until Friday, I like the sting. The toaster greets me before my Mom can. Toast in hand, I slither out the house and huddle into my broken white kia. The car spurts a tune too repetitive to stand,  even for a ten minute drive down the street. 

         I’ve learned in my lifetime that if you are looking for absolutely anything, Home Depot is the way to go. No matter what you're dealing with like a breakup, a funeral, a baby shower, Home Depot has something for you. 

          I admire how Home Depot has an ambiance that attracts men above the age of fifty to live their fullest male fantasy. Inside there are enough women to start a revolution: one. I know these aisles like the back of my hand. Paint is in aisle 6, light fixtures are in aisle 11, and the buckets are kind of everywhere. Today's list (unfortunately my last list) includes rope, tape, two buckets, glow in the dark paint, exactly seven lightbulbs and garden shears. At checkout I go to the line with the least intimidating cashier. Older women never scared me, there is solace within their rows of wrinkles. The total rounds out to a dramatic $56.75. She makes me bag it myself, as I do it she stares at my arms as if I have something up my sleeve. She stares as if I have etched the word FREAK into my arm with a cartridge razor. It's comforting that she cares, it's more comforting that I don't. 

          I’ll let you know that I don’t know how I want to kill myself. I like to think that's why the deceased don't plan their own funerals. How could you know what color blouse you'd like to rot in? You rot either way. But with this, with me, everything has to be perfect. 

          My junk drawer surrounds me in military rows of miscellaneous objects.  Some say they could be used for a cooking class, others could say they could be used for murder. These objects stare back at me like dolls that so badly want to be played with. As a child I played with all my toys, practically destroying them. Nothing is off the table, I grab the rope and get to work. 

           I have a history in Girl Scouts, selling exactly forty boxes. Camping trips solidified my adrenaline within the stripes of a Samoa. Over my five years in troop 960, I earned a badge and one badge only: tying knots. I begged my Mother to let me quit, but maybe she was right. It was good for something. 

           Now, I stand in my closet recalling which knot it takes to support a human body. How many bunny ears would equate to a noose? This is the type of stuff they don't tell the kid smuggling a pack of Thin Mints in the corner, the kid who actually acted on their Berenstain Bears obsession and tried to go hunt one.  This might be a problem. It's not the type of thing you can Google either, but we’ll wing it for now. I am at the point where I’m so content with death I can feel the maggots seeping into my skin. I tie the rope like I am lacing up my burgundy converse and leave it at that. I’ll see you guys on the other side. 

           Here's a lesson. If you're considering hanging yourself make sure to account for the size of your head. The situation is even worse considering there is no eating disorder to achieve a smaller head, a smaller brain. I blame the little knowledge I have, all the facts I store about tsunamis and just how quick the Titanic sank. All the unnecessary stuff that just made my job ten times harder. On to plan B. 

           As easy as it sounded originally, it is really hard to commit suicide. Humans don’t just have an off button that you can press anytime things go South. It takes unbelievable tasks to even remotely reach the afterlife. For example the man down the street who died by drinking too much water. His name was Gary Tomkins, a real stand out guy if you ask me. I visited his tombstone one time just to see what it said. The stone read, “Rest in Peace Tom. A loving father of two.” Personally I think it should’ve said “Gary Tomkins. Death by dehydration.” 

           Scissors, I can use scissors. The way they slice through cardstock, they should be able to slice skin the same. My hands spread like a wildfire in search of a pair that will end it all. The only options are my second grade pink craft scissors. I stand over the sink, my wrists reflect the message that it is time to go. Goodbye and good riddance. 

          Lesson two. Know the difference between regular scissors and safety scissors.  I’m starting to think Mrs. Mcfarlane gave me these for a reason. I don’t mind being a danger to myself and others, but Mrs. Mcfarlane this is a whole other level of low.  What do I do now? Plan C?

          I'm running out of options. There were sixty seven point one million deaths in twenty-twenty two. Around seven hundred thousand of those being suicide, my point is it can’t be THAT hard. 

          My neighbor has a pool. An in ground pool the shape of Idaho. They welcome me to use it anytime I want. I decline knowing the way my skin shrieks at the sight of light and the sting of chlorine. While it’s never been ideal, today it just might come in handy. 

          Swimsuits are half flattering on me, I can say that with confidence. My scuba gear is half a decade old ridden with printed turtles and sullen looking mermaids. No need for towels in the middle of July when you’ve got the Texas sun. Two bushes and a four foot wooden fence later it’s go time.

          Whitney Houston drowned in a bathtub, which sounds impossible. But to drown in a pool, now that's possible. I’ll be with the fishes… 

          Lesson three. Rubber ducks don't sink and neither do I.  I don't want to talk about it. Plan D is nonexistent, the same way my father is. Failure is a familiar feeling but this hurts worse. 

          God I wish I had that towel. 

          One four foot wooden fence and two bushes later, I am back at home. Shame greets me at the door in the form of a turkey sandwich. Shame follows me as I dampen the stairs, only to be met by my Mothers smile. Shame seeps into me as she gives me a hug. Her embrace whispers, “it’s not your time yet.” My pride disagrees. I unravel her arms before I get second thoughts. 

          Blue walls rock me to sleep. My pillow is food for thought, as I imagine suffocating myself with it. Maybe this isn't the way. Edgar Allen Poe's last words were, “Lord, help my poor soul.” I think about what that means, what he had been asking for. I think about whether or not he wishes he lived a happier life. One not filled with ravens but hummingbirds. I wonder if he spent his life in the dark because he didn't have electricity. I wonder if he was depressed. I wonder if he had at least five therapists. I wonder if those therapists told him you can escape your feelings if you really try. I think I really tried. 

          Hours later I am awakened by an alarm that sends me back to eighth grade english.  Two AM dries my throat. In times like these my thirst can only be quenched by a sprite. Specifically, a medium Big Gulp from the 7/11 on Broadview filled to the brim with ice. It calls for me on days where the clouds hang a little bit too low. My blanket lags behind me as I walk avoiding all sidewalk cracks because my mother has had enough medical problems. Suddenly I am saluted by the overbearing smell of hot dogs and black coffee. I’m a repeat customer here, they know me a little too well. This time it's a lady at the counter, a lady with hair like mine. Her name tag reads Joan, a name too old for her studded jewelry. Typically, Clark, my friend, has the night shift. I make friends everywhere I go, friends meaning anyone who doesn't run at the sight of my scrawny physique. I ask, “Isn't this Clark’s shift?” Her tone was monotone and at that moment I realized she didn't know Clark, like really know him. She says, “They said he’d been going through a lot.” The store rattles as if Clark has picked it up from the heavens. My head bobbles with it, as I try to comprehend this news. For once I have nothing to say, white noise seals the space with the type of silence that encompasses a coin toss.  

         To have been so far gone and back within a millisecond, I see it clearly now.