If You Love Me Let Me Go

“Just write it, Dammit!” I muttered under my breath as I flipped my journal over on my desk. Why was this so hard for me? People write suicide notes all the time! People who aren’t suicidal write suicide notes; why is this so hard for me? I turned my journal back over and stared at the mockingly blank pages. This should be easy for me. I have waited months for the time when I would be brave enough to do this and now I am. This should be easy, but it isn’t. Nothing about these past twelve months have been easy. I don’t understand why people say that suicide is the easy way out when it is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

When I saw a tear fall on the white piece of paper- when I saw it spread like the darkness that infiltrated my mind I knew that it was now or never. ‘Mom and Dad,’

“Kellin!” I heard my mom yell. She subtly knocked on the door as I cursed and wiped my tears.
“Just a minute Mom!” I hollered back as I routinely shoved my journal into the book-disguised box and placed it back in it’s place between Found and Forgotten. I dashed to the mirrors that hid my clothes in the closet and fixed my appearance. I pulled my sweatshirt sleeves down so it didn't look like I had been working on something, I messied up my hair, and I wiped the remnants of tears from my face. I fell into bed and pulled my computer on my lap as if to appear as though I was there all along. “Come on in”

“Just wanted to check on you.” She said as she looked me up and down. My mother had definitely aged over the past year- her luscious brown hair fell flatter and is dimmed with stress, the bags under her eyes are more pronounced, and all of her used-to-be caring and sincere smiles are less lively and more forced. It must be hard to be a single mom with a suicidal son. I know I disappoint her but she couldn’t even begin to imagine how much more I disappoint myself.

“You don’t have to do that, I’m not seven anymore.” I mumbled back just loud enough so she could hear while still keeping my head in my laptop.

“No,” she said matter-of-factly as she crossed the bedroom to the end of my bed. “You’re seventeen. Which I happen to know is much more dangerous.” I looked up from the screen just long enough for our eyes to steal a short glance. She held out her hand as I stared at it and said “Laptop Check.”

“Of course” I sighed as I carefully rotated my laptop on my lap so she could see what I was doing. She glanced through the history which had, unbenounced to her, been cleared of anything and everything she would have found suspicious and scrolled through the page I was currently on; Hottopic.com. “All good, Sergeant?” I asked sarcastically as she handed my laptop back.

“Not yet, Soldier.” She stated holding out her hand yet again. “Wrist check.” she and I both said at the same time. She shot me a glance that I could define as either sympathetic or cautious.

I reluctantly gave her my hands as she turned them over and inspected for any fresh-looking cuts. I involuntarily sucked in my stomach, silently thanking God that she didn't do “tummy checks”.The Checks and Balances system was one she enforced after she found me in the bathroom with a razor blade pressed against my forearm. She does sporadic weekly “checks” to make sure that my mental capacity is “balanced”. I know that she only wants the best for me but she just doesn't understand how much that the cutting helps me psychologically. And if I have my way she never will. She think’s I’ve been cut free for three months now; secretly I couldn't go three days without it.

Apparently seeing no new cuts she released my hands and left me alone. I watched her walk out and shut the door behind her. I looked down at my wrists and ran my finger along every thin, white line. Each line represented another battle that I had persevered through; represented just one small casualty in the midst of an entire war; and I didn’t think that was a bad thing. Everyone else in the world did, though, and that’s all that matters.

Society has this picture perfect idea of how the entire world should be. How people should dress, act, look, speak, react, it’s all set in stone. So when someone like me comes along, well you aren’t exactly the most loved person. In fact, you’re called names, you’re laughed at, and you actually get used to being pushed several times while walking between classes. Because not only does society have this image, but they will stop at nothing to create and maintain it. Killing off the people that don’t fit this image? Oh no, how inhumane! How devastating that would be! How terrible to even suggest it! Instead, they do much worse. They isolate us, they insult us, and they wait for us to kill ourselves off for them. Because that is so much more civilized, don’t you agree?

I decided to switch to the website I really wanted to be on: Tumblr. My parents cut me off of Tumblr because they said it promoted too many negative vibes. It did, that I’m not denying, but it helped me know there were people out there like me. People out there that wanted to kill themselves and didn’t eat and thought they were worthless just like I did. I wasn’t alone when I was on the internet and could be anyone and be with anyone. I just wanted to belong somewhere.

And at that moment I did something I rarely did. I looked in a mirror. I tried not to do that because it usually made me more sad than usual and that was something I didn’t really need in my life. I weighed 110 pounds. Which is considered unhealthy but I thought it was still too much. My hair was black as night and fell about shoulder length long. My face was skinny due to the fact that I don’t really eat much and I had eyes that were piercingly blue. I was normal looking, nothing special, and I liked it that way. Not being noticed was my specialty.

I turned away and decided that I wasn’t in the mood to feel exceptionally sad right now. Just the normal sad that I always was. Sad is something you eventually get used to, it’s not something you like, just something that you realize isn’t going away. Like the person that sits behind you in spanish- you don’t really talk to them, don’t like them or dislike them, they’re just there. You get used to them. Thats how it was with sadness. Thats how it was that cold january night in Michigan when I started my letter and decided that I didn’t want to get used to the sadness. I wanted it to end.