Making me break

December 18, 2011
By , West Jordan, UT
I step outside, and the wind blows softly through my hair. I picture myself as one of those supermodels, with the hair blown back and the beautiful face. Realistically, I know what I really look like. There are leaves blown everywhere, and I can’t help but wonder if they see me. Maybe I am just invisible to them, and I am in their way. Walking to school everyday has been something that I have hated doing since I was little. I had no friends, so I would just wander off alone, being jealous of all the other kids running around and laughing with all of their friends. I would get to school and go to my class and sit in the back row. I wouldn’t talk. My 3rd grade teacher thought that I was weird and had problems. (If she only knew.)She sent me to the school psychologist. “Hello Michelle, will you tell me some things about you?” She said in a voice that sounded like she gave a s***. I never said anything back to her. She would just ramble on about how she was worried about me. I didn’t believe her. When people say that, they are just setting me up to get hurt. Every year it is the same thing. Some teacher will say they care, and try talking to me about my life. I have learned the hard way that no one really cares about the way I am feeling. I spilt my whole life story onto another person, with the hope that they could help me feel better. I guess I was too much for them to handle.

July 25th 1994 was the day that started everything. My mom and dad had 4 previous children, which, might I add, were planned. They didn’t want me; they have proven it to me for seventeen years. I was born in the morning at around five. This was a total inconvenience for my mom, who is definitely not a morning person. She was in the delivery room alone; my dad was in the hall, tending all of the other prized possessions. I assume it was one more thing that he had to deal with in his over stressful life. Although, he did contribute to that day, and, if I had the choice, I would have stopped it from happening. That is the weird thing that I have noticed about birth. Two people are bringing an innocent person into this world. But, what if the child doesn’t want to be alive? They don’t have a choice, do they? It is not a strange fact that I have grown up wanting to be dead, and hating everything about everyone, especially me.
“Let’s talk about Michelle. How has she been lately?” Jane, the family psychologist asks me. You would think that I, being her mother would know the answer to that question. “I am not sure; she has been pushing us away more than ever.” I said with desperation in my voice. “I hope that she is doing okay. I hate lying to her. I wish I could tell her that I am here. I wish that she knew how much I care about her.” I stare at the floor and my eyes fill up with tears. “Have you ever told her that?” Jane asked. “No.”


Have you ever hoped that one day you would wake up in an emergency room, and hear the words “She is not going to make it.”? Is it wrong that I had been looking forward to it, like it was all I needed.
I took a bottle of pills to school one day. One more thing to keep me company. There was this girl in my Spanish class, who, if I had to guess, did not have a whole lot going on up there. Here name is Kristena. I met her one year when I was sluffing English. She was sitting outside crying and so we started talking. Apparently she has a lot of crap going on in her life. She and I made a promise the other day, that we would together end it all. She told me to bring the pills, and she would bring the vodka I wonder where Kristena went, if she even survived. We held hands while we drank the whole bottle of vodka. The pills were already in our system, and I thought that the end was near. Such a hopeful dream.


Friday morning at approximately 8 A.M the psychologist called me down to her office. Taking my time to roam this unfamiliar territory in search of room 201, I find the hallway to be unusually narrow, almost as if its walls are closing in on me. I take two deep breaths before entering the room. The door creaks open, and I get the uneasy sensation that I am walking into something uncomfortable. She leaps from a plastic chair and shrieks a welcoming serenade, assuring me that everything is going to be okay, and I can relax. I look around the room before I sat down. She had posters with young adults with their faces being held by their hands, followed by ones that read “Think Positively!” I sit down. The shrink looks nervous and like she was waiting her whole life to meet me. Her face was old and her eyes had purple bags under them. Probably from old age and stress. I can see past her smile. She is worn out from all of the sob stories she hears each day. If I were religious, I’d find myself right here, in this very room, praying to God that I’m not that easily read. She handed me a journal and told me to write each day. She says it’s important to get my thoughts onto paper, even when they seem miniscule. Miniscule – I know what that feels like.


I am scared to open the journal. Words are dangerous, especially when we write them down. If I’m not careful, they might betray me. I don’t want to write anything down, because it will get me thinking, which is never a good thing. Being lost in my thoughts creates problems that weren’t there to begin with. I take an orange pen from my drawer and jump face first onto my bed. I lay down on my stomach and with pen in hand, I open the journal. She wants me to write my thoughts. I try to write, but it is almost like my hand is paralyzed. There is too much on my mind for me to keep it to myself. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t do it.
When I wake up in the morning, I stare at myself in the mirror, hoping that what I see is good enough for that other being. The being that has made me sink so low in its choice of another. The previous day, holding my own actions of trying to work myself up failed completely. I want to make friends, so I do whatever it takes. I try and try again…what exactly I am trying to accomplish I have no idea, but for some reason it’s important. I have to see myself through this task or it will destroy me…I think it already has. I continue to dwell on this path of trying to impress another, that I no longer recognize what I am…what I am becoming. I look in the mirror not seeing myself, but a doll, whose hair is being continuously trimmed and prepped. I see another pulling my own strings, laughing to his own amusement. I do not struggle to get away; I let things be, because I am certain that I will never be able to cut the strings of my own reflection. I can only watch on in horror as I let myself be led down a path that I can never come back again, but I shall wave myself goodbye, bidding I a good journey. With hope that I will eventually return safely. It is me who pulls the strings. I drag my own self to my own destruction, and I admit that I have done so. Sometimes I feel like nobody has held me down and forced me to cry or made me hug them, or seen to the inside of me. I just say 'oh I'm fine' and walk away. Nobody's ever said to me 'no you're not'.
“Welcome back Sarah.” Jane said to me, shaking my hand. “How is Michelle doing? I haven’t heard from her in awhile.” She looks at me as though she wants to break me. “She hasn’t been eating again. She has gotten real thin. She won’t talk to me, but its okay. She never has.” I looked her in the eye as I said the last word. “Sarah, have you ever tried to talk to her, to ask her what is wrong?” I thought for a moment before I answered. “No, I guess I have never cared.”

“An apple and a glass of water, that should do it.” I say to myself. School starts in fifteen minutes, and here I sit. Staring at the clock. I look down at my arms and see how small it is. I am impressed with how “well” I have always wanted to get down to my original weight. 5 pounds 7 ounces.
I remember that today I was supposed to write down my thoughts. I take out my journal and begin writing. But this time, I use black ink. I think it leaves a bigger statement than orange, orange is a happy color. “Do you ever get the feeling that you don’t want to talk to anybody? You don’t want to smile and you don't want to fake being happy. But at the same time you don't know exactly what's wrong either. There isn't a way to explain it to someone who doesn't already understand. If you could want anything in the world it would be to be alone. People have stopped being comforting and being along never was. At least when you're alone you don’t have to try. You feel the way you do just because. You hope the feeling will pass soon and that you will be able to be yourself again, but until then all you can do is wait.” I slammed my journal shut and put it into my backpack. Off to school I went.





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