24 - Papers

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I dropped the paper bag I was holding, not even hearing it hit the floor. Taut and wary, I slowly made my way to my bed, my eyes drilling into the papers. The envelopes were lined - from the first to the last.

I picked up the sixth one, and it was heavy in a way. On the envelope, I put 06 in sharp, blue-inked script. Gingerly, I tore it open and pulled the letter out. Other than it being wrinkled, it was still in fairly good condition. I stole a deep breath and then allowed my eyes to roam. The last time I read this was roughly two weeks ago. Throughout the years, I kept all my letters in a box beneath my bed - mostly as some sort of twisted documentation. A couple of days ago, I had gathered all of them and, in chronological order, put them in envelopes. It hadn't been my intention to be the one opening them.

Wednesday / 10:47 a.m. / September of 2009

I hate it here. I feel restless, drained, furious. People are nauseating. Being awake is tiring. I want to leave and never come back. WHAT IS THE POINT OF ANYTHING? I'm alive, but I'm not living. It shouldn't be like this. Nobody cares. I am by myself, alone with this misery. I don't understand why. I never asked for this. I never wanted this. What is happiness? Why do other people have so much of it? What is hope? Why can't I feel it anymore? I sit in class and walk through the hallways, surrounded by oblivion. They have no idea. They see right past me. Too busy, too unconcerned, too far away. They will never know. I need to feel something other than pain. When will things CHANGE? I want to be dead. I want to leave.

I'm so close, but nobody knows.

I pressed my lips together, unsure of how to feel. If I recalled correctly, I had written this one in one of the restrooms at school. That hour, I was supposed to be in class, but I had blown it off, too upset to care. The note was short, but I could remember how serious I was during those moments. I hadn't been crying; I bit back the tears instead. And I had forced my pen down on the flimsy sheet of paper hard, overcome with resentment. However, now, I strained to remember what exactly had triggered me.

Sluggish, I took a look at another envelope. The second one. I was fourteen.

I set down the one I just finished reading and got a hold of the next. Carefully opening it, I took notice of my handwriting, which had been messier.

03-16-07

Dear whoever finds this,

I'm sorry. I'm exhausted. I'm not okay. If I actually do what I've been thinking about for a long time, then don't be mad. I'm not that important. The world will forget me easily. You'll move on. There are too many things wrong with me. I will never be how I want to be. I am nothing but disappointment. I'm so messed up and it's not something I can fix. I know things could be worse, but that doesn't mean I can't feel horrible. I've tried to focus on why I should be grateful, but it's not really enough. I don't want to stay. I don't want to be here anymore. Forgive me for all the mistakes I've made and for being one too.

Sincerely, June

I heaved a deep breath, suddenly feeling unbelievably sad. The more I read, the more I was reminded of what I'd been through. I was no longer the same person I was years ago, but at the same time, I was. It was a bit gut-wrenching to know that depression struck me at such a young age. I don't think I deserved any of it.

My eyes went back to the other envelopes. Although I was already sick of reading, I grabbed another one. 07. This was from last year.

"There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds." - Laurell K. Hamilton

I agree.

This feeling won't let go of me. It's not sadness, not frustration, not bitterness. Things are so clear now, but at the same time, it's all hazy. I'm drunk off my depression but sober enough to ache.

It is 2:48 in the afternoon - Sunday. I can go to a store and buy rope. I can swallow forty pills. I can grab a butter-knife and jam it right in my chest. And I'd be dead by 3:11. I can do it. I can.

What's holding me back? I don't know. I'm waiting for nothing. Nothing will save me. Nothing will take me away. I'm stuck here, stuck with toxic people, stuck with these loud thoughts, stuck with wanting what I can't have and having what I don't want, stuck with myself. I can end it all now, but I'm not sure.

I prayed last night. I haven't done that in a long time. I prayed for peace. That's not too much, right? But maybe I don't even deserve that.

God, help me please.

I paused, noticing how the last word was smudged. At that time, I had been crying, and one of the tears stained the paper. I didn't write anything after that.

For many years, I'd been in a back-and-forth battle, feeling messy and mad. The thought of death had taken my hand, gripping it until I was numb. I constantly questioned my worth and my future - if I would even have one. For a while, I thought so. Maybe I did matter. Maybe I was here to be a part of something bigger than myself - but I could never figure out what. Eventually, I dropped the thought of me being important. I felt death's fingers curl around my throat this time. I allowed it to squeeze, harder and harder with each day. This led to my next suicide letter.

I stared at the envelope. 08.

December 15, 2011

It's cold. I just took a shower. Even with the water extremely hot, it didn't help. I cried. It's not like anyone heard though. I placed a hand on my chest and felt it. My heart beating. I felt something else after. Rage.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. I JUST WANT TO BE OKAY.

They say it gets better. They are liars.

The only thing inevitable is my death. I hope it comes soon.

Right as I reached the end of the sentence, a noise cut through the air. Gentle and fleeting, I realized it was my phone signaling that I had received a message. I reluctantly put the letter down and went over to where it was. Grabbing a hold of it, I saw that it was a text from an unknown number.

Hello. Is this October or March?

I blinked and then pressed my lips together. I didn't feel any amusement, but I did feel a pang of comfort. Although I just spent roughly half an hour reading the most personal things I'd ever written, thinking of Forrest somehow pushed some of the burden off my shoulders. I contemplated whether or not to reply right away. Finally, I decided why not?

I began to type.

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