On the walk back to the unit I persuaded a subdued Dillon and Em to say that they the only reason they had left the front without permission was to follow me. Dillon was leaving soon, and Em was very nearly up to observations that would let her come and go freely, and I was determined that this trip wouldn’t destroy both of their chances. Besides, I thought bleakly, that woman had heard my argument with Em over the pills, I was going to be in deep trouble regardless. There was no point dragging Dillon and Em down with me.
I remained stubbornly silent through interrogations from Amy and evening staff, numb and unable to do anything more than falsely confirm Dillon and Em’s story, and then curl up, cold and silent in the chair I occupied. Eventually, to my surprise, I was let go on the same half hour observations I had been on previously.
Once released, I slowly and deliberately mounted the stairs to my room, taking in every movement in dangerous detail. If all went to plan, they would be my last. I had had it. Had it with the pretence of recovery, the self hatred, the flashbacks, the memories, the utter awkwardness of my life. I didn’t belong.
I had never fitted in, my life was a series of failures and saddening social interactions. I tried to fit in with the kids on my road. Aged four and upwards I was forced off the street by their callous, calculating dismissal and teasing. Aged five, the man I trusted the most, had endless fun and luxurious lengths of laughter with, sexually abused me, and would continue to do so for years to come. Seven, I was moved up a year group, and was hounded until I spent every school day sick to my stomach, plagued with migraines and insecurities, unable to look myself in the eye without bursting into tears, nursing a concussion silently, because I deserved what I got from the children that observed my faults and failings far more astutely than anyone else. The list went on, swirling and whirling in my head.
I reached my room, and pulling the door shut, reaching for my wires, familiar and full of potential. I noosed them again, slipping them round my neck, but this time relied on my own hands to perform the strangulation. I wanted a slow, painful death, a death of desperation and destruction, as I deserved. I pulled the wires tight, refusing to yield as the air was choked from my throat, and my face and head seemed to swell and come close to exploding with the pressure. Sparks flew in front of my eyes, and I knew, or rather hoped, that the sparks were indicators that I was at the end of my journey, I was dying, finally, irrevocably leaving this world forever…
'Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you.'
['There is only one thing we say to death. Not today'.']
'We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.’ – Oscar Wilde
‘It’s hard to dance with the devil on your back.’ Sydney Carter
I just wanted to say your writing has really touched me and I think you are so brave and amazing to have overcome this. I truly hope you no longer feel this way.
I look forward to reading more of your journey.
“The good things don’t always soften the bad, but vice-versa, the bad things don’t necessarily spoil the good things and make them unimportant.”
“Nobody important? Blimey, that’s amazing. Do you know, in nine hundred years of time and space I’ve never met anyone who wasn’t important before.”
“If it’s time to go, remember what you’re leaving. Remember the best. My friends have always been the best of me.”
