A letter from Oct 27, 2023

Hello, I hope you're still alive to see this. Let me tell you a little story- and if you remember this (which I really hope you don't), maybe you'll be thankful for what happened today. It was a simple day, a really, really normal day. I woke up early to go to work, I worked like normal, left to go to school at 8:30, reached school early. I went to Spanish. Then went out to my best friend's house where we messed around, watched TV, we laughed because one of my friends started reading fanfiction that was so stupidly smutty and horrendously written that we couldn't hold it in. After that, I went to LA, where my friend and I messed around while our peers were having a conversation on The Stranger. I went to Starbucks with her later, where we continued to write our little stories, laughing and having fun. I felt young. And I felt happy. Trick-or-Treat street was today and I got to dress up as a trio with my friends, I thought I looked really cute today. I had fun there too. It was foggy when I left school after dropping my friend off- because she would have had to walk home in the dark, cold, wetness all by herself. It's weird to me, thinking back on it now, that I offered to help her. I would have said no, usually, and went home. But I didn't. I offered and I dropped her off and I went on my way. I'd been away from home for 15 hours. I didn't get a single text or call from my parents. Which was fine, it was a taste of my future. This would be my life soon, and yes, while I was upset, I'd also felt free. But I still had to drive back home. So I did. I reached before my guardians did. And I was thankful because I had to erase all traces of the makeup I had had on for Trick-or-Treat Street. So I did that. And then I stayed downstairs in my room in the basement. I didn't go out to greet them. But this was normal. I stayed downstairs doing something- I honestly can't remember now, until my father called me upstairs for dinner. I waited a bit before going. I hate it. I went upstairs. Had dinner before I remembered something from this morning. So I went to the car to get the newsletter from my workplace. I had been featured on one of the pages and I thought that was cool. I wanted to share that with my father- because he wasn't actively ignoring me. My father had left. I told my mother instead. I said, "Do you want to see this?" She was washing the dishes in front of me, she didn't look up or respond. She looked at the TV playing a drama, like it was more important. Which to her, I suppose it was. I said nothing after that. But I thought a lot. I thought about ways I could get her attention again, though I honestly like it this way. Still, I thought about what I could do. And that's when it came to me. If I was bleeding, she would have to care, right? You don't ignore the leaking blood that you contributed to. I had planned it out in my head. I'd do it in the basement, a shallow cut because I could never hurt myself to the point of *****. I would cut enough for blood to sprout. I'd go upstairs, I'd get a bandaid from the medicine drawer, antiseptic. I'd cut enough so it bled on the floor, I'd walk close enough so she could see it on my skin. Now listen. I've had this thought many times before, but I always snap myself out of it. Tonight, for some reason was different. I don't know why. It just was. So after I ate, I went to the cabinet, grabbed the antiseptic and a bandaid. I walked upstairs to get earrings because my piercings were starting to close up. I cried the whole time. I looked in the mirror. I thought I looked pretty when I cried. I pushed the earrings in. I can still feel the ear throbbing with heat. I walked downstairs. I cry quietly. But I wonder sometimes. How do you miss a whole person falling apart right in front of you? There was nothing subtle about my hurt or the way I wiped my eyes. There was nothing subtle about the red. I was suddenly losing solid foundation and no one noticed- now I think, not even me. It didn't feel like it was ever built up, it felt right. I felt nothing. Usually, I feel something. Now it felt right. I walked back downstairs. I set the bandaid and the antiseptic carefully on my bed. I go to find the exacto knife. I usually keep it in my pencil holder. I use it to cut paper. Today, I planned on using it to cut me. I couldn't find it there. So I searched the desk. Not there. I searched the bookshelf. Not there. I go back upstairs, my mother still doesn't see me. I don't want her to. I searchmy sister's room. It's not there either. I go back downstairs. I search everywhere again. I start to lose control. I sob. I cry really heavy tears that I can't seem to hold back. I don't know where it is, still. If I find it. I might do it. I hope I don't. I hope I do. I hope I can get this out of my system. I had a thought as I was driving tonight. Of getting hit and not dying. It goes like this: I would get into an accident. I'd just bump the car. Nothing major would have happened. The man I hit would have come out of his car to talk to me. I would stay in mine. Slamming my head repeatedly against the wheel. He'd knock on the window. I'd roll it down. Before he could say anything, I'd say, "Why didn't you **** me?" He'd ask what? He'd look taken aback. I would continue calmly, "Why not hit my car so hard the glass cuts me into ribbons. So I bleed out before they bring me back to the hospital." He'd look at me in still confusion. I'd blink. And that was the end of that. Maybe it was something that kept the knife from me. I don't know what I would have done with it. But I remember this quote. From The Fault in Our Stars, " It's a metaphor, see: You put the ******* thing right between your teeth, but you don't give it the power to do its *******." Maybe I'd let the blade just rest on my skin. Let it feel my pulse but never stop it. Or maybe I wouldn't have minded letting the blade sink in. See blooming blossoms of crimson on bark. I don't know what I would have done. I don't think I ever will. I'm sorry you're reading this. And I'm sorry I ever felt this way. I hope you're doing better now. I hope everything is OK and you're alive. There's so much to live for. I know. I know it all too well. But, oh my god. Sometimes living is just hard. Sometimes it takes all your energy not to swerve in front of that oncoming car. My manager said this to me once. He said, "You're only sixteen. A year of your life is 1/16 of your whole life. I can see why that feels like a lot. When you're my age. A year becomes 1/55 or 1/60. Everything speeds." I don't know what to think about that right now. I hope, though. I hope that one day you'll know what he's talking about. I don't want you to have all your problems and issues solved, because if I have so many right now, I can't begin to think of how many you will have. I just want you to be ok. If not happy, I want you to feel like you could be. I feel that way now. I feel like I could be happy. I just need to wait another 1/16 of my life to get there.