#zesme

The Impact of Untreated Mental Illness 

brilliant, friendly, loving, supportive vs. manic, desperate, lost

The realization has suddenly hit me.-Miles Hollingsworth is officially out of my life. My bedroom has never felt so empty. My sheets felt cold and betrayed. My eyes are blank as I stare at my klonopins.

The bottle is within an arm's length, just as I'd left them this morning. I can take them. Shit, I can take five right now and I'd feel nothing. Regardless, what I felt now was meaningless. Then again, it might have been all along.

All of a sudden, I laugh. Quite audibly, even though it's at my own thoughts. As if I'd heard a joke and the smile that keeps tugging at my lips is a normal one. I myself can't even say if it's over the wasted time I never kept count of, or at how failed we were from the start. I'd be crying if I hadn't gotten that out of my system an hour prior to this.

I'm Esme Song, and I'm backwards.

Don't make this harder. I'm trying to change. Why did he fight me? Why did he want this?

You don't need to change for me! My thoughts had spoke for themselves.

My feet had carried me as many steps as he took to walk away from me. Never was I so honest in my entire life. He tried to give me a rejecting stare, but I knew he was confused. It was as if I was the first person he'd ever heard those words from.

There's nothing wrong with us! I insisted.

What are you saying? He asked.

We should run away.

What a fool I was. He gave me one last look of vulnerability as our castle had crumbled. Miles didn't have trust in me anymore. He was picking up his own broken pieces when he didn't even have to. He didn't need to change, but he wanted to. He made his choice before my hand could reach his shoulder. All I had done was watch him slip from my fingers.

My brows suddenly furrow, paired with a sudden, pathetic stab of loneliness. I dismiss the memory-and the rest of them I have of Miles with it. His concerns. His face. His touch; but more importantly, the wanderlust we had shared.-The only thing that kept us from thinking too much about how much we're fucked up.

With a flick of the wrist, my braid is freed, and my long hair is sprawled over my shoulders. I lay on my side, and my gaze drops to my wrist. It had no scars. No wounds from any sort of blade. Why my brain whipped up that idea-just to keep a friends with benefits around, no less, was probably the stupidest thing I've ever done.

I cried suicide; scratched and clawed to make him stay, and it was all for nothing. It was over. He had picked the option of carrying the burdens of life on his shoulders again, and I wasn't a part of the new life he wanted. Maybe if I had been that kind of pitiful girl...

- The one with the real tears and cuts on her wrist. Would he had stayed?

I sit up, back straightening. I can't take it anymore. I grab the bottle on my nightstand and feel a rush from it's rattle. Pop. It's opened, and four of them land in my hand. I take them, and I lay back down, staring up at the ceiling. It's like some kind of relapse- taking them just because of someone else. Up until now, I have never been so impulsive with my benzos. I know I'll be high as fuck and that means I'm confined to my room and four days short of my regimen. For my well being, Miles will have to be forgotten now.

Never again. I say to myself. I proceed to rid the word "normal" from my brain. I will never let anyone get the best of me again. And If I have to go back to being alone?