I tried to kill myself so my parents took me to the hospital and when I got out we went therapist shopping. I hated all the shrinks, with their soothing tones and obvious advice. The questions they asked led nowhere. I couldn’t help but feel that even though they were supposed to help me they were just condescending and manipulative.
My friends either acted like nothing had happened or were too gentle with me. One day I was walking to English class with a friend and she said, “Our papers are due tomorrow and I haven’t even started mine, please kill me now.” She quickly gasped and apologized over and over.
“It’s okay.” I assured her. But we never felt comfortable around each other after that. I slowly drifted away from my friends. They talked about their boyfriends while I counted the tiles on the cafeteria floor. They talked about clothes while I tried to make myself melt into said cafeteria floor.
They still said hi to me in class and asked how I was, but I spent most of my time in the library or bumming cigarettes from a grunge boy named Joe on the front steps. A girl with dark black eyeliner and light scars up and down her arms noticed the white bandages around my wrists. She asked me how I got the guts to do it and I told her to fuck off.
When the bandages came off I wore bangles big enough to cover the scars. I took 5 pills a day, one pale pink, three white, and one blue. I stopped being depressed but I was never the same as I was before.