A Letter to Doc

April 21, 2011
Dear Doc,

It has taken me a long time to write these words—and many, many tries. I’m afraid this still won’t make much sense, but I’ll do my best. But see, it takes a lot out of me, the truth. Because, me? I’m prone to lying. I’ve been a compulsive liar. You read those five words right now in what, two seconds? They took me so much longer to write—hours, it feel like. They are the first bit of dark sludge lodged inside me, somewhere deep down, that has come vomiting out through my fingers just for you, Doc.
You told me to write down my problems, that maybe it’d help. But I’m terrified. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to read this to you, as me, exposed. All these secrets and lies have become such a part of me I feel as if they are me. I know that’s a fake feeling. It’s as much of a lie as the great gaping mouth of want inside of me. But we’ll get to that later. The lying and the want is the least of my problems, and I suppose I should continue. But god does it hurt to drag these things out of me.
I’ve been a cutter. Wow. I don’t feel better with that off my shoulders, not at all. The weight of your judgment, Doc, is crushing me. Oh, you want an explanation; a how do you feel about that? Well I’ll tell you: Like scum of the worst kind. When I started, I was in my last year of middle school, and I was hoping I’d be addicted to it. I was hoping for an escape.
Confession number three: I’ve tried to kill myself maybe four times, tops. The first and third time I don’t think I even realized what I was doing, and the fourth time I wussed out. I had too much to lose by then. Now I suppose you’re dying for details, and I guess I can oblige. You’ve been so patient with my all silence; it’s the least I can do now. Attempt numero uno was starvation. After snatching everything else from me, the chemo began screwing with my ability to swallow and my taste buds. So I gave up. But then I was losing weight too fast and was put on steroids. Who knew, I guess all those baseball players were right: steroids are good.
Attempt number two was the worse—sleeping pills. That’s a longer story I’m choosing not to go into, for now. The third time was almost comical. I was on vacation, and I met a guy. Yes, I know, feel free to roll your eyes. Of course there’s a guy. His name was Jason, and he was fascinating. I won’t bore with all the wishy-washy details (how he liked that my hair was still short, how my scars matched his, how we kissed behind the tilt-a-whirl while hiding from my cousins) but I will say one thing—I was hypnotized. On my last day, I found out he had a girlfriend. Naturally, some fake fruit was thrown, words were said and numbers deleted, and my third attempt was born. Now, here’s the funny part. I hitched a ride on this little kiddie train that would drive guests from cabin to cabin. I jumped on, and the conductor in his stupid smiley face hat was so nice I started to cry. When he tried to ask me what I wrong, I screamed that he shouldn’t worry about it and that I could handle it all by myself. Then I threw myself off that goddamn train painted pink and baby blue and lime green with a big happy train face on the front. Granted, it was probably only going 10 mph, but I was still skinned up pretty bad, plus I lay in the middle of the road for a while, knowing I should just die because no one would ever love me. Ouch. Alright, so the final attempt is much shorter, thankfully, and there’s not much story behind it, just a lot of sadness. I tried to slit my wrist. Isn’t that a nasty phrase? But I didn’t have the guts to go nearly deep enough, and my weakness saved me.
Phew. That was a long one—and trust me, there’s plenty more. That was just middle school. But don’t worry, I’m still breathing Doc! Don’t count me out of the game just yet. I’m still here, and I can walk. I can talk and eat and breathe and laugh and run with these verbs and call them my own. Despite of what I’ve been and done, I can even trust a little nowadays. High school taught me that, right along with the quadratic formula and how to successfully jam a locker. But don’t hold your breath doctor, because I know you’re just dying to know what happens next. Well, too bad Doctor, so am I.
Dying, that is.





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback