Help Me

February 9, 2017
By LaciRothacher BRONZE, Dundee, Ohio
LaciRothacher BRONZE, Dundee, Ohio
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

     I don’t deserve this. I do not deserve to be put in this position. I’m only seventeen. I have my whole life ahead of me. This right here is what is holding me back. But what if I don’t want to do this anymore? What if I just give up and end it all? Then what? What will happen to the house if I’m gone? What will happen to my father? I mean, not that I really care about that lazy, selfish, and worthless human being, but still. It’s not like it’s my fault he turned out this way. The real question is, would he even care? I’m his little girl, that should make him care, right? Wouldn’t he want to watch me grow up and succeed in life? In a little under a year I will turn eighteen, and then I could have the chance to be free. I could leave and move far away and never look back. I could finally live the life I have always wanted, the life that I deserve. I could be free at last. A year is a long time though, and a lot could happen between now and then. Who knows, maybe I’ll make it until then, maybe not.

      Every time I close my eyes, I relive it. I can see it vividly. I can hear the blood curdling screams. I can hear the screeching and squealing of the tires. I can remember opening my eyes, being dangled upside down from my seat belt in the car. I remember screaming for my mom and getting no response. I can still hear the ear-piercing sirens. I can still see the red and blue lights that blinded me all night long. I remember the ride to the hospital. It’s all there, embedded in my mind, with no plan for escape. Every nightmare I’ve ever had has been about that night. I can remember the mornings I would wake up with tiny sweat beads on my forehead and tears slowly filling my eyes. I remember running to my father in his room seeking comfort, just to find him passed out with half his body on the floor, half on the bed. Sometimes I used to think that I lost him too, because I would scream out for him to get up and he just wouldn’t. He used to lay there, lifeless, just like my mom did. But then magically he would come back to life the next morning, making me confused as ever. If he could come back awake from such a deep trance like that, why couldn’t she?

     It seems like I’ve tried just about everything to get over it, everything except one thing, that is. I promised myself to never go there though, to never be like him. I promised myself to never go near that monster that is slowly destroying my father. I might as well just take the blade to my wrist like I have a million times before because it’s basically the same thing. Why would I want to experience the pain slowly, day after day in agony, when I could just end things all with one swipe? I’ve tried therapy. I’ve tried seeking help from friends, teachers, and counselors at school. I’ve tried watching crappy videos on YouTube about kids who have overcame suicidal thoughts. I’ve even tried talking to God. Nothing seems to work for me. I just can’t seem to find that one spark that makes me want to stay. The only thing that could make me change my mind is my mother. Ever since she left me that night, my world has been nothing but a living hell. What nine year old deserves to be abandoned? Why would she leave me? Why?

     Sometimes I lock myself in my room and I think about how I could see this situation with a positive outlook. Sometimes I think that this was her way of trying to show me something. Maybe she is trying to show me how to become my own person, trying to teach me how to make my own life decisions, and how to fight my own battles. This would all make sense to me if she left when I was older, but I’m still just a kid. I used to just have to worry about going to school and relying on my dad to try his best to take care of me, but now it’s like the roles have switched. Now I’m the one taking care of him and now I’m worrying about going to school without having a mental breakdown and bursting out into tears.

     My father never used to be this bad. I mean sure, he would have a drink or two, but that was normal. He also used to cry like a baby. He used to cry, and cry, maybe scream, and then cry some more. Mr. Depression used to kidnap him and make him disappear for a couple of days and I would have no idea where he went, just to find out he was in his room the whole time and chose to forget about his daughter. But one day, the crying stopped. There was no more moping around the house, no sobbing in the middle of the night, no screaming, no nothing. The day the crying stopped is the same day when the destruction began. The crying turned into yelling, and the moping around the house turned into punching walls and slamming doors. The little peace that I did have would be destroyed by the loud noises of my father running into things because he was so intoxicated he could barely walk. Sometimes it would escalate and he would become violent. At times he would hit me as a way to take out his pain and frustrations. He would leave me there in the corner, either with blood on my nose or a giant red hand print across my cheek, crying, bawling my eyes out. Sometimes I would cry because of how bad the pain hurt, but other times I would cry because of the man my father has become.

     Who have I become? When I look in the mirror, I used to see a little girl living a happy life, and now I see a girl with demons circling her head, living anything but a happy life. The little girl that lived in my body before me never knew what makeup was. She was never introduced to the girly side of women. She was all about shorts and plain t-shirts and pony tails. The little girl before me would be terrified of the person that kicked her out. The girl that has now taken over my body and my mind is the complete opposite. The girl that now lives in my body loves makeup because it covers up the black eyes and the red stripes running up and down her arms. She now wears scarfs and her hair down 24/7 to cover up any bruises. She traded her shorts in for pants to hide the bruises and scrapes on her legs to from “running into the table” and “getting scratched by the cat”. I now reside in that body of the second girl, shoutout to my father for bringing out this side of me.

     Some of you may ask what my motivation for living is. I can easily without a doubt tell you the answer to that in one word. Nothing. Who’s going to miss me? Who’s even going to notice the fact that I’m even gone? My mother? She’s been dead for years. My father? He is so obsessed with that monstrous liquid he thinks that “Miller Lite” is an actual person's name. Grandparents? They live hundreds of miles away and still “lose” my birthday cards in the mail. Friends? If a friend is what you call someone that makes jokes about you and makes your life at school a living hell just for their amusement, then yes, I have tons of friends. My education? How am I supposed to understand calculus with a pounding headache from hitting my head off the floor? Siblings? Yeah, I wish. I have no one to rely on but myself. See? Nothing.        


At some point, you just have to stop caring. At some point, you just have to stop trying. At some point, you just have to accept the fact that you’ve been defeated. I stopped caring a long time ago, after I would find him laying on the floor in a puddle of his own vomit, knowing that he did that to himself on purpose. I stopped trying after I would get shoved up against the wall for making the crust on the pizza a little to brown. I definitely accepted the fact that I have been defeated when I stopped trying to make everything better because nothing ever worked.  All I want is just for it to stop getting worse. The voices in my head won’t stop unless I silence them. Half my body will always remain darkened and discolored unless I walk away. I’ll always have stripes on my arms if someone doesn’t take the magic wand out of my hands. Millions of people all over the world take that daring leap all the time, and I become more and more jealous of those people every single day. None of it will stop unless I make it stop, and you and I both know there’s only one way to do that.

     It’s time.

The author's comments:

I wrote this piece in my fifth period English class. We were assigned groups and I picked the fictional short story group. For some reason, this topic instantly came into my mind. I think that suicide, depression, and alcoholism are nothing to take lightly. I wrote this piece to shed light onto all of the families world wide that deal with this type of issue within their lives and to show people all of the details that they miss. People sometimes think that sometimes it's better to just stay out of situations like this, but honestly, I think it's better to get involved. You could help save someones life by just asking how their day is going, or if their doing alright. This is a serious issue, and I hope that when people read this, they see just how bad it is and how it affects everybody. 

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