I lay in bed staring at the wall, clutching my pillow close to my chest. All the thoughts in my mind race around. Faster and faster they spin, out of control. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to stop these thoughts, these feelings. His screams echo in my head, You stupid, worthless, bitch, you’re just like your mom. Her words whisper through my mind, like the wind whistles through the trees, When Xavier turns 18 none of you will need me anymore, so I’ll just kill myself. I roll over in my bed and look at my little sisters sleeping figure just a few feet away “Jess, you awake?” I whisper. Silence. I reach between the mattress and box spring and pull out a razor blade. Pulling up my sleeve I hold the blade to my upper arm a few inches above my elbow. Tears build up in my eyes, and as I hesitate the feelings continue to build up and race through my mind, sad, angry, worthless, confused, hurt, and so much
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Standing at my open locker I tightly clutch my paper for health class, my knuckles white, the paper wrinkled. I don’t want to turn it in I can’t she’ll tell my parents about it or something. They’ll be angry, they’ll be ashamed of me, and they won’t let me get help. They hate therapists, psychiatrists and other mental health professionals. They don’t believe mental health illnesses really exist, depression is something easily fixed on your own, it’s something you can just snap out of, other people have it worse off, your emotions are what you make them, you can choose to be happy. Warning bell rings. I shove the paper in my backpack and swing it over my shoulder. I slam my locker shut and walk to the school library. I’m not turning in this paper, I’m not going to class. I’ll just hide in the library till schools out. I find a quiet place to hide in the library till schools out just as the late bell rings. I pull my sketchpad and pencils out of my backpack and begin to draw. Don’t know who yet, I just draw till all the details come
Standing at my open locker I tightly clutch my paper for health class, my knuckles white, the paper wrinkled. I don’t want to turn it in I can’t she’ll tell my parents about it or something. They’ll be angry, they’ll be ashamed of me, and they won’t let me get help. They hate therapists, psychiatrists and other mental health professionals. They don’t believe mental health illnesses really exist, depression is something easily fixed on your own, it’s something you can just snap out of, other people have it worse off, your emotions are what you make them, you can choose to be happy. Warning bell rings. I shove the paper in my backpack and swing it over my shoulder. I slam my locker shut and walk to the school library. I’m not turning in this paper, I’m not going to class. I’ll just hide in the library till schools out. I find a quiet place to hide in the library till schools out just as the late bell rings. I pull my sketchpad and pencils out of my backpack and begin to draw. Don’t know who yet, I just draw till all the details come