Lucas.

You think you’re happy. You think you’re better. Until one night, the empty feeling comes back and your friend calls you to ask how you are and your words hitch in your throat. The tears are threatening to spill and you can’t seem to know why. It’s when you start sobbing that you realize you will never be fully better. The scars don’t disappear, darling, they only fade.

being mentally ill + suicidal at a young age (before 18) is. strange, because you grow up with this idea that one day you’ll finally snap, turn off, be brave enough to kill yourself, so you don’t really plan for the future. adulthood- further life, it isn’t for you, nor do you feel included within the future of it. it isn’t.. it isn’t part of your life plan.

The morning after I killed myself, I woke up. I crept outside for an early cigarette. the hazy plume of smoke danced in the air before me. I made myself breakfast. I poured myself some cereal and opened the fridge for milk. I sifted through the silverware to find my favorite spoon. I washed the dishes and folded the towels. The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with some boy I’d met at school or a party. Not with the everyday movie star or celebrity. I fell in love with my mother. and the way she kept every card or poem I had ever written her. I fell in love with my best friend and lover as he consciously placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current of the river. With my sister who sat gritting her teeth studying for law school who once believed in mermaids but who now sits at her desk, trying desperately to believe I still exist. The morning after I killed myself, I bathed. the warm water felt comforting. I watched each bead of water trickle slowly down my skin. I dried myself off and fashioned my hair nicely. I parted the strands of light brown and burnt umber, tucking the wisps of stray hair behind my ears. I applied makeup and lavender perfume. I wore my best dress. The morning after I killed myself, I went back to my backyard where I left my footprints in the grass. I examined how they were already fading. I picked a few dandelions and pulled a few weeds. I looked across the street and watched an elderly woman through her window as she read the paper, with the news of my death. The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each ray of light opened like a hand holding precious gold. The morning after I killed myself, I went back to my body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about falling in love, the river and the footprints in the grass. I told her about the sun rising and the illuminating sky. The morning after I killed myself, I tried to take it all back. Yet I couldn’t finish, what I had started.

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