Drowning.

When I was five or six, sometimes I would curl up and just close my eyes. I could do it for hours; it was my version of crying. Tears made me feel out of control, so I’d focus on not letting them out. I’d lock myself in my room and just wait for the sting behind my eyes to leave, and sometimes I would fall asleep while doing so.

My parents thought that it was unhealthy, I now agree. Just where was I storing all those tears? I think I have yet to cry them all out. Even when I scraped a knee, or was scared, I would curl up into a ball and just think of nothing. It wasn’t like meditating... it was like keeping my emotions prisoner. It was pathetic that I had to prove to myself I was okay by not shedding tears.

I grew out of it after a while. I cried whenever I got the urge, it felt like I wouldn’t be able to stop, but I felt so much better afterwords. Now, I feel like I’ve gone right back into that nasty old habit again, but no one knows except me, and no one needs to know until they find me, but even then they probably won’t understand.

I pop the lid of the pill bottle and pour out a hand full, I’ve been running the water for a while.

They say that girls are more timid when they do stuff like this, and boys act out more. Like it’s manly to make a statement in their death. I guess drowning yourself in your bath tub is a pretty timid way to go about dying. Especially for a guy, but I guess I just don’t feel the need to prove myself by jumping into an orgy of blood thirsty sharks.

The bath tub has overflowed, the cold water is pooling around my bare feet. it’s only a matter of time before it leaks it’s way into the hall and down the stairs.

When I was twelve, I saw a man on fire. He was standing in the middle of a park, flames melting his skin from his shoulders down. He had doused himself in gasoline at his apartment and lit himself right out in the open. At first I hadn’t believed what I was seeing, we were just driving by . My Mom called the police, and there were already people trying to help set out the fire. It was bizarre, it was scary. My Mom was trying to be calm and not freak me out, but I could tell she was frantic, everyone was frantic. It’s not very often that sort of thing happens where I live.

For weeks I had nightmares about being on fire. I didn’t get much sleep.

During that time, I already had thoughts about killing myself, but after seeing him burn I realized I would never do something like that to myself in order to get help. My plan was that I would do the deed calmly and quietly, without anyone suspecting anything.

I cup the pills in my hand, tilt back my head, and let the pills fall into my mouth. I swallow each one carefully, and hobble my way over to the bathtub.

I don’t turn the water off, and I leave the door wide open. My parents will find me when they get home. My vision is blurry and unfocused as I slip under the water. I don’t blame anyone for my problems, this doesn’t have to do with other people. I’m just glad that my skin isn’t burnt and I’m alone in my bathroom.

You probably know, but you can't produce tears underwater.