18, the end

the sequel to "18, interrupted"

“i think i’m in crisis,” i told my therapist. “it's just a matter of when.”

“stay strong kit,” he said, “hang in there. we've got you.”

have they, though?

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i tried to fight. i made a (short) list of things to look forward to over the next several months — an audition, meeting my friend's girlfriend, a movie release. i used my coping strategies, and took a xanax as prescribed by my psychiatrist. surprise, none of them worked.

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usually i worry excessively about being a bother, but i didn't care about that when i shamelessly asked my therapist for ten minutes of his time on the same day. i wanted to see him again before i go, to say goodbye without actually saying it. he offered a zoom meeting, on the house. “i’m asking you to fight,” he said, and, “what words would you like to hear from me?” he asked, but i stayed silent. i didn't know.

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i bought razors and disassembled them, hiding the blades away. but in a moment of weakness i fessed up. i begged my parents not to send me to the psych ward again, promising them i would be good, imploring them for one last chance, and that i was no longer suicidal. i am a very convincing actor. they agreed. i let them hug me even though i didn't want to be touched by them.

i went to sleep early; it was the closest thing i could get to death at that moment. i had to share the bed with my mother because my therapist put my parents on suicide watch. i wished i wouldn’t wake in the morning, but i did anyway.

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my parents adopt this unusually caring tone when they find out that i’m suicidal that makes me incredibly uncomfortable. i refuse to be vulnerable in front of my parents: with them, i am perpetually flippant and grinning. my armour is always on in front of my parents, and my mask tightly strapped to my face.

and they call me my deadname to my face when trying to get an honest answer out of me, which just makes me grit my teeth and raise my wall even higher.

my father went on and on about things he might do to help, and finally, i snapped at him, “well, you're not helping.” and i am too far gone to care despite the look on his face.

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“i don’t know what you have,” said my psychiatrist. whether it's bipolar disorder, depression, or borderline personality disorder, she doesn’t know. but does it matter, at this point? i think it's funny and a little ironic that not even my psychiatrist knows what's wrong with me. she wants to observe me longer before she makes any changes to my meds. an experiment, so to speak — with my life hanging in the balance.

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my friend sent me photos and videos of herself and her life to try and wake me from my depression: my cousin who you haven't met. life. how beautiful. all the dumb skills you will learn (a video of herself juggling). still, i remained blind and indifferent. it's hard to care much about anything when you're suicidal.

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“there's a faulty wiring in you,” my therapist said. but i feel guilty to know i have a privileged life, nothing really going wrong, a supportive family, a friend who is always there for me, a therapist who cares — and yet still want to throw it all away.

it sounds terribly ungrateful when i put it like that, but the pain, the pain! the heaviness, the ache, the hopelessness. it is unbearable.

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i am willing to stay alive a little longer. my mother is going to be admitted to hospital for appendicitis tomorrow morning. i promised her i wouldn't do anything while she is gone. not that my promises mean much; i've broken them many a time in the past without much care.

but i know how this story ends. like i said, it's just a matter of time. i feel like i was always meant to die young, by my own hand. like death was always peering around the next corner, waiting to take me — and i would willingly go with him.

i wrote a piece yesterday titled you WILL get the life you've dreamed of, and yes, you will.

it’s just that i won't.

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note: i don't know what the point of this piece is. there is no point. and that's fine by me.