Status: Finished.
A Phone Call Could Save Your Life
Story.
I constantly think that everyone hates me. Every day, I’ll walk through the halls at school and see people I used to be so close with that I don’t even talk to anymore. Best friends from elementary school. Acquaintances that I’ve had one or two classes with in the past. No one I’d talk to, though, and no one that would talk to me.
I haven’t always felt this way. I used to be happy all the time. I used to have a great circle of friends, people I knew cared about me, people who would gladly talk to me at any time. Then, probably about a year ago, something happened in my brain. I started pushing these friends away, saying things to them that were unforgiveable. Now, I have only a couple good friends left.
Besides the friends situation, my mother and I have barely spoken in almost three months. I don’t know if we had a fight or an argument or if it was just something stupid, but she seems to have lost all faith in me. She stopped cooking for me, stopped telling me she loves me. I wish I could understand what happened, but I really can’t.
I used to have a girlfriend. She was smart, beautiful, funny, everything. I loved her so much, but she threw it all away once she found out about my depression anxiety problems. Within a month of breaking up with me, she had found someone new, a big jock from the football team or something. I won’t say I wasn’t jealous. I won’t say I didn’t loathe him for taking her away from me. I know it wasn’t his fault, but I still despise him. He used to be my friend, too.
Lately, I feel as if no one cares about me whatsoever. Not even my best friend in the world, whom I’ve known since the seventh grade. She’s been too busy to find time for me, I guess. I have my other couple of friends, but I know they will never care as much as I’d like them to. They never have shown a true interest in my well-being. They just happened to stick around after being told of my mental illness, after I treated them terribly. I know that their opinions of me changed drastically, though. There’s no doubt about that.
I’m supposed to take medication for my depression, but I take it inconsistently because I feel no different than before. I don’t think they’re working whatsoever.
After a really rough few weeks at school (I’d been informed in every single class that I was either failing or close to it), I feel like I’ve had enough. I wish my mom would talk to me, I wish I wasn’t failing, I wish my best friend had time to talk and listen to me. My life could easily be so much better, but I have no way of making it so.
For the longest time, there hasn’t really been anything to live for. If I just disappeared, no one would really care, would they? Why should they, really? I’m not smart, I don’t carry on a good relationship with my family, I’ve got no friends, and the few people that actually try to be friends with me, I’m constantly pushing away. So, really, no one cares, or I just don’t want them to care.
So, the last Friday of the month, I walk home from school all alone (as usual). It’s a dreary day, all rain and grey skies and whatnot. This doesn’t help my mood whatsoever. I’ve got all my books and school stuff in my backpack, I’m wrapped up in two winter jackets. Basically, I’ve cleaned out my locker and am bringing everything home. I know what I want to do. It’s a terrible thing, yes, but it really is what I want. I think so, anyway.
When I get home, my shoes are soaked from walking through too many puddles. I don’t care, though. Why should I? I’ll never have to wear them again if I succeed in my task.
I’ve already looked up ways to do this online. I mean, obviously I know what everyone knows about suicide, but I just wanted to get more in-depth instructions so that I’ll be more likely to just off myself than to end up lying miserably in a hospital, still alive.
I’ve decided that overdosing would be the easiest method for me. I’ve got my anti-depressants, after all, and I know my mother keeps a bottle of sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet for nights when she has insomnia. A handful of some of those, and I’ll be dead soon enough.
Before I go and get the required equipment, I decide I should clean up around the house as a little last gift to my mother. Maybe it’ll give me some time to think about what I plan on doing. As if an hour or so is going to be enough time to change what I’ve been thinking about for weeks.
Sure, I’ve had my doubts and everything. Like, maybe my mother will talk to me when she gets home from work tonight. Maybe everything will just go back to normal between us and I can tell her how I’ve been feeling and she can get me help. Maybe my best friend won’t be too busy to talk to me tomorrow at school. Maybe she’ll do that best friend psychic thing and read my mind and convince me out of this. Maybe I’ll suddenly start passing all my classes with excellent grades. Maybe someone will talk to me today. Maybe I’ll wake up and not be depressed anymore. A whole lot of ‘maybes’. Unfortunately, none of these things ever happened. Oh, well. Just proves me right, I suppose.
After I’ve finished cleaning/thinking (my mindset hasn’t changed one bit. Why would it, after all?), I take myself upstairs to my bedroom, grabbing the sleeping pills out of the medicine cabinet on my way there. I keep my anti-depressants in my bedroom, so once I’m there, I close the door and take them out of my bedside table.
With a bottle of pills in each hand, I begin reading the suggested dosages under my name and my mother’s name. I calculate in my head how much of each medication I’ll need, then shake that amount out into each hand.
As I sit there with pills in each of my hands, I notice that I’m shaking. I’ve begun to cry, just a little bit. Why, though? This is what I want. This is what they all want for me, most likely. I’ll be better off like this, right? No more depression, no more rejection, no more hurt. I’ll be better off this way.
I take a deep breath. I decide it’ll have to be the anti-depressants first since I’m more used to taking them. I’m stalling now, counting over and over how many pills there are in this hand, how many in that hand, how many in total. Just get it over with, you coward, I think to myself.
Just as I’m about to put the first pill in the back of my mouth to swallow it, my cell phone begins to ring. I don’t know why I answer it. More stalling, I guess.
The caller ID says it’s my best friend. I answer, ‘Hey.’
‘Hey,’ She says, ‘I just thought I’d check up on you, see how you are, you know? So, how are you?’
‘Alright, I guess…’ I lie.
‘Well…’ She pauses, sighs, and says, ‘Hey, I know I’ve been kind of busy lately. I’m sorry I haven’t had much time to talk to you in a while. I know you’re having a hard time with your mom right now, and school and stuff. I should be there for you, I know I should be. I just want you to know that no matter how busy I am, though, you can always call me up and talk to me if you need anything.’ It’s like she knows exactly what’s going on. How does she know?
‘I know you are,’ I say. It’s true; I do know she’ll always be here for me. That’s what a best friend does, after all.
‘You know I love you and I always will, right?’ She asks.
‘Of course. I love you too.’ I say, trembling.
‘Alright, good. I just wanted to make sure. Call me later if you want to talk?’
‘Sure thing,‘ I say, ‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’ She says. We hang up.
I put my cell phone back on my bed. I look at the pills in my hands. I put them back in their corresponding bottles.
Why do I do this? Simply because of my best friend. She does care, and I’ve known it all along. She will never stop caring about me. I can’t just leave her, it would be unfair. I don’t want to hurt her like this. She’s the one thing in this world that gives me hope.
*****
It was lucky that she called at the time that she did. If she didn’t, I really would have killed myself. And you know what? I’m actually really glad I didn’t. My life is much better now. I spoke to my mother. She took me to get help. I told my best friend about what I had been so very close to doing. She cried. She again assured me that she would always be here for me, that she loves me, that she’ll always be by my side. I’m so lucky to have her.
Suicide is not the answer to any problem. As bad as your life may be, it gets better. My psychiatrist, he prescribed me better medication and has me doing all these things to keep me happy. My grades have improved so much; I’m no longer failing anything. My mother and I are speaking regularly again.
Someone will always care. You just need to find that person and hold onto them. Someday, they might just save your life.
I haven’t always felt this way. I used to be happy all the time. I used to have a great circle of friends, people I knew cared about me, people who would gladly talk to me at any time. Then, probably about a year ago, something happened in my brain. I started pushing these friends away, saying things to them that were unforgiveable. Now, I have only a couple good friends left.
Besides the friends situation, my mother and I have barely spoken in almost three months. I don’t know if we had a fight or an argument or if it was just something stupid, but she seems to have lost all faith in me. She stopped cooking for me, stopped telling me she loves me. I wish I could understand what happened, but I really can’t.
I used to have a girlfriend. She was smart, beautiful, funny, everything. I loved her so much, but she threw it all away once she found out about my depression anxiety problems. Within a month of breaking up with me, she had found someone new, a big jock from the football team or something. I won’t say I wasn’t jealous. I won’t say I didn’t loathe him for taking her away from me. I know it wasn’t his fault, but I still despise him. He used to be my friend, too.
Lately, I feel as if no one cares about me whatsoever. Not even my best friend in the world, whom I’ve known since the seventh grade. She’s been too busy to find time for me, I guess. I have my other couple of friends, but I know they will never care as much as I’d like them to. They never have shown a true interest in my well-being. They just happened to stick around after being told of my mental illness, after I treated them terribly. I know that their opinions of me changed drastically, though. There’s no doubt about that.
I’m supposed to take medication for my depression, but I take it inconsistently because I feel no different than before. I don’t think they’re working whatsoever.
After a really rough few weeks at school (I’d been informed in every single class that I was either failing or close to it), I feel like I’ve had enough. I wish my mom would talk to me, I wish I wasn’t failing, I wish my best friend had time to talk and listen to me. My life could easily be so much better, but I have no way of making it so.
For the longest time, there hasn’t really been anything to live for. If I just disappeared, no one would really care, would they? Why should they, really? I’m not smart, I don’t carry on a good relationship with my family, I’ve got no friends, and the few people that actually try to be friends with me, I’m constantly pushing away. So, really, no one cares, or I just don’t want them to care.
So, the last Friday of the month, I walk home from school all alone (as usual). It’s a dreary day, all rain and grey skies and whatnot. This doesn’t help my mood whatsoever. I’ve got all my books and school stuff in my backpack, I’m wrapped up in two winter jackets. Basically, I’ve cleaned out my locker and am bringing everything home. I know what I want to do. It’s a terrible thing, yes, but it really is what I want. I think so, anyway.
When I get home, my shoes are soaked from walking through too many puddles. I don’t care, though. Why should I? I’ll never have to wear them again if I succeed in my task.
I’ve already looked up ways to do this online. I mean, obviously I know what everyone knows about suicide, but I just wanted to get more in-depth instructions so that I’ll be more likely to just off myself than to end up lying miserably in a hospital, still alive.
I’ve decided that overdosing would be the easiest method for me. I’ve got my anti-depressants, after all, and I know my mother keeps a bottle of sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet for nights when she has insomnia. A handful of some of those, and I’ll be dead soon enough.
Before I go and get the required equipment, I decide I should clean up around the house as a little last gift to my mother. Maybe it’ll give me some time to think about what I plan on doing. As if an hour or so is going to be enough time to change what I’ve been thinking about for weeks.
Sure, I’ve had my doubts and everything. Like, maybe my mother will talk to me when she gets home from work tonight. Maybe everything will just go back to normal between us and I can tell her how I’ve been feeling and she can get me help. Maybe my best friend won’t be too busy to talk to me tomorrow at school. Maybe she’ll do that best friend psychic thing and read my mind and convince me out of this. Maybe I’ll suddenly start passing all my classes with excellent grades. Maybe someone will talk to me today. Maybe I’ll wake up and not be depressed anymore. A whole lot of ‘maybes’. Unfortunately, none of these things ever happened. Oh, well. Just proves me right, I suppose.
After I’ve finished cleaning/thinking (my mindset hasn’t changed one bit. Why would it, after all?), I take myself upstairs to my bedroom, grabbing the sleeping pills out of the medicine cabinet on my way there. I keep my anti-depressants in my bedroom, so once I’m there, I close the door and take them out of my bedside table.
With a bottle of pills in each hand, I begin reading the suggested dosages under my name and my mother’s name. I calculate in my head how much of each medication I’ll need, then shake that amount out into each hand.
As I sit there with pills in each of my hands, I notice that I’m shaking. I’ve begun to cry, just a little bit. Why, though? This is what I want. This is what they all want for me, most likely. I’ll be better off like this, right? No more depression, no more rejection, no more hurt. I’ll be better off this way.
I take a deep breath. I decide it’ll have to be the anti-depressants first since I’m more used to taking them. I’m stalling now, counting over and over how many pills there are in this hand, how many in that hand, how many in total. Just get it over with, you coward, I think to myself.
Just as I’m about to put the first pill in the back of my mouth to swallow it, my cell phone begins to ring. I don’t know why I answer it. More stalling, I guess.
The caller ID says it’s my best friend. I answer, ‘Hey.’
‘Hey,’ She says, ‘I just thought I’d check up on you, see how you are, you know? So, how are you?’
‘Alright, I guess…’ I lie.
‘Well…’ She pauses, sighs, and says, ‘Hey, I know I’ve been kind of busy lately. I’m sorry I haven’t had much time to talk to you in a while. I know you’re having a hard time with your mom right now, and school and stuff. I should be there for you, I know I should be. I just want you to know that no matter how busy I am, though, you can always call me up and talk to me if you need anything.’ It’s like she knows exactly what’s going on. How does she know?
‘I know you are,’ I say. It’s true; I do know she’ll always be here for me. That’s what a best friend does, after all.
‘You know I love you and I always will, right?’ She asks.
‘Of course. I love you too.’ I say, trembling.
‘Alright, good. I just wanted to make sure. Call me later if you want to talk?’
‘Sure thing,‘ I say, ‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’ She says. We hang up.
I put my cell phone back on my bed. I look at the pills in my hands. I put them back in their corresponding bottles.
Why do I do this? Simply because of my best friend. She does care, and I’ve known it all along. She will never stop caring about me. I can’t just leave her, it would be unfair. I don’t want to hurt her like this. She’s the one thing in this world that gives me hope.
*****
It was lucky that she called at the time that she did. If she didn’t, I really would have killed myself. And you know what? I’m actually really glad I didn’t. My life is much better now. I spoke to my mother. She took me to get help. I told my best friend about what I had been so very close to doing. She cried. She again assured me that she would always be here for me, that she loves me, that she’ll always be by my side. I’m so lucky to have her.
Suicide is not the answer to any problem. As bad as your life may be, it gets better. My psychiatrist, he prescribed me better medication and has me doing all these things to keep me happy. My grades have improved so much; I’m no longer failing anything. My mother and I are speaking regularly again.
Someone will always care. You just need to find that person and hold onto them. Someday, they might just save your life.