Personal Writing: Non-Fiction
English Coursework, Year 11.

I wish I could forget to remember the few weeks before, but I cannot.

Depression is like age; it creeps upon you when you least expect it. One day you are looking into the mirror with a promising future looming ahead of you, and the next you see nothing but a hazy darkness that refuses to go away. You get out of bed grudgingly one morning and realise that your eyes are shining from tears and misery rather than laughter and happiness. You force a smile at your reflection but the dead emptiness does not leave your eyes.

I remember crying and feeling numb; not being able to drag myself out of bed in the mornings from fear of what lay ahead. Surviving another hour, another day, seemed utterly impossible and the very thought of even trying was overwhelming and unbearable. I remember only being able to get to sleep at night by promising myself that tomorrow might not be another day. I remember thinking I was slowly going insane, but no one around me seemed to realise. I remember forgetting to breathe. I remember work being just words, ink on paper. I remember walking into school with no books, and putting things down, not caring where. I remember wearing three coats of mascara to school so that I could not cry. I remember stealing sleeping tablets from the kitchen cupboard, knowing they did not even work but allowing the prospect of sleep to comfort me all the same. I remember walking around school and visualising myself hanging from the banisters, grey with my neck broken. Dead. I remember wondering whether whoever found me would pull me back over the banisters or cut the rope and let me fall to the concrete below. I remember sitting on my own, and talking to myself. I remember feeling as though I was the only person in the entire world and everything else was a nasty hallucination, an illusion I tried desperately to block out. I remember telling everyone that I was OK, not to worry and feeling physically sick as I watched them believe me.

Everything seemed dislocated and completely unreal. Everyone around me was so preoccupied with things that essentially did not matter in the slightest: boys, make-up, and the latest fashion that would fade away in the blink of an eye. Trivial things with no consequences, no meaning, no point. I felt like I was the only person in the whole world who recognised things for what they really were, who saw the reality everyone else was oblivious to and needed to be to survive.

I was told to appreciate what I had. I was told to revise and learn things that I cared nothing about. I was told to make the most of the opportunities I had. I was told I had brains; that I could do whatever I wanted if I was just willing to apply myself, if I stayed motivated and tried hard. I never found it in me to tell people that I just no longer cared. I would pretend to do my work, but spend the whole lesson contemplating suicide. Thoughts of death engulfed me, occupied every waking thought and completely wiped away any hope I had of ever feeling remotely normal or happy again.

Everyday I felt like death and nobody suspected a thing. I walked through the days as an emotionless robotic mess; breathing but never living. Waking up at 7:30, getting dressed and going to school. Staring out of windows and enduring arguments and lectures by continually reminding myself that it did not matter how much people said to break me, it had no consequence. I was a zombie, a reluctant member of the living dead. Going home and continuing the façade, going to bed, curling up and not being able to cry.

It is amazing that throughout the whole year I did not receive one detention considering I did no work whatsoever and what I did do lacked a certain coherence, length, care. I never spoke a word about how I was feeling. An illusion of togetherness glittered in my reflection but inside I was falling apart. No one noticed, and I was never sure whether that was a good thing or not. I genuinely believed that I was beyond help anyway. I could not go on. The question was how long I could go on before the cracks began to show on the outside and everything and everyone balancing precariously on my shoulders began to hit the ground. I was in free-fall.

I found websites and spoke to people I would never know. I wanted answers. I wanted someone to tell me the meaning of life. I wanted to be told I was crazy and every thought that whirled mercilessly around my head lacked all logic and rationality. I wanted a pill that would make life bearable again but, of course, I got none of them. I did not have depression. I was doing just fine. I wanted people to change the world, but no one could. The light at the end of the tunnel switched off. People hurt. People die. I needed to get over myself.

I thought about getting my passport and getting a one-way ticket somewhere, anywhere. I could escape and never come back. I comforted myself with this daydream whenever I got dangerously sad for the few moments it took me to realise that it was not possible. As a thirteen-year-old girl, I did not even believe I was allowed to leave the country without my parents. Plus, ten pounds would get you a ticket nowhere. People would worry. I would be found. The daydream, however, made the next few moments tolerable. I began to learn the power of minds; it was its own place and could make a hell out of any heaven and, similarly, a heaven out of any hell.

I opened the kitchen cupboard and stole my first packet of Paracetamol. Believing I had achieved something, I faced another day. I calculated everything in my mind: sixteen in a packet, five-hundred milligrams per tablet, and eight within twenty-four hours maximum dosage. Paracetamol works on the liver and is absorbed quickly. Over one hundred Paracetamol will bring you up to fatal blood levels. Do not eat anything, but line your stomach with half a piece of bread – it will be absorbed quicker. Transfer the tablets into a plastic bag and dispose of the packets. If I were found with just a plastic bag then no one would know what I had taken, which would have delayed treatment. For the next few weeks, I stole a packet, half of a packet, random tablets until I reached an acceptable number.

It would have been so much easier to slit my wrists or hang myself like I had visualised so often but I could not. I wanted to die but I did not want it to be so final. Gradually dying was more appealing than having to take a plunge that I was not sure I was prepared to take if the situation arose. I wanted to curl up and sleep forever. I craved nothingness. In the back of my mind, I knew that it would not be that simple. It takes up to two weeks to die of liver failure and is an extremely painful and uncomfortable process that starts with jaundice and internal bleeding. I tried to stop myself thinking like that. The truth was, how did not matter. Everyone dies sometime.

During this time, teachers began to bother me about work. What were you doing? Why has the essay not been done? Do you need more help? Do you want me to go through it with you? Many teachers are saying you are behind in your work. How could I have explained that I did not see the point in doing the work? I was no longer interested in the slightest, that I looked out of the window and lost myself in thoughts of dying. Essays are only words on paper. None of it matters; none of it makes the smallest amount bit of difference. There was not any point.

I planned a date and moved it forward. I was terrified about waiting too long; scared that it was only time before someone realised what was going on and then there would be no way out. There was nothing they could do; I could not take anymore. I did not want to get better. Everything was great; everything was as perfect as it could be. Things could only get worse.

Part of me hoped and prayed that they would realise what I was thinking. I wished they knew the nightmare I was living, the despair I was drowning in. I was sure if they could, they would have wished I was dead too. I believed that they would understand, realise I was beyond help and give up. Let me go. People would hurt wherever I went. I would die. Sooner or later, what difference did it make? Time. I continued justifying suicide in my head. Short-term pain for long-term gain; they could get on with their lives rather than watch me destroy myself.

The date I had decided upon came. I walked around school, everyone was looking at me. Eyes boring through my skin, analysing, critising, judging and testing me. Talking at me, about me. Tears prickling my eyes like tiny knives that proved an ache rather than pain. Shoulders back. Deep breaths. Breathe. Breathe. Needing to get out, bolting down the corridor. People talking behind my back. People controlling me, watching me. No way out. No escape. The process had already begun. I knew it was all in my mind, but that was not any comfort at all. I was going mad.

Eyes burning. Walking into someone, recognising the face. Panicking.

“Are you OK?”

“Yes, fine. I just need some fresh air. I’ll be fine in a moment, you know me.”

I headed to the bathroom, clicked the lock on the door and landed in a heap as my legs gave way beneath me. It took five minutes to steady my breathing to some kind of natural pace again. I sat hunched in a ball and started at the wall, finding comfort in the little plastic bag that hid in my pocket. My throat hurt, my eyes stung. I could take two Paracetamol for the headache, but then I would not necessarily have enough. I opened the plastic bag and took two, taking small bites of the bread at the same time. Not knowing what to do, wracking my brain; thinking, thinking.

I decided to do what I had planned on doing.

I did not believe I could do it, could not believe I would let myself die in a school toilet, not remembering that it takes weeks to die of liver failure, but nevertheless swallowing another tablet, and another and another. One more could not hurt. I just wanted to sleep forever, to make everything stop. Another tablet. Every moment closer to the dream of curling up and never having to feel anything again, and another. No one could help me, and another. I began to take two at a time, three at a time, no longer remembering how many I had taken. Eight in twenty-four hours maximum dose, it was too late. I had definitely taken more than that. I became frantic; I had to swallow them all before the bell sounded, before someone found me, before I passed out. I had to do it properly and it was a blessing to have something to concentrate on; a race to get them all down, to get it over with.

The bell rang. I was numbed, relaxed, comforted with the fact that I was going to die. I had escaped, and it was all over; no more pain, no more tears, no more fearing waking up, no more lying, no more saying that I was fine.

The clock ticked; it would not be long before the Paracetamol had an effect. Tick, tick. My mother and fathers smiling faces. Tick, tick. My brother starting his new school. Tick, tick. I had not said goodbye. Tick, do not think, tick. What will they think? Tick, do not put yourself through this, tick. I should have written notes, I had not said goodbye. Tick, tick. It did not matter. Tick, tick. I needed to stay detached otherwise; I would not have been able to go through with it. Tick, tick. It would soon be over. Tick, tick. Nothingness. I was a parasite, a leach on their happiness. They could move on. It was easier this way; they would not have to watch me fail. They could remember me as a happy child, happy memories. They would understand; if they really loved me, they would understand. They would not have wanted me to go through this. I was weak and pathetic. Evolution works because people like me die out, are eliminated. Survival of the fittest. All I was doing was speeding up what was going to happen anyway.

In the end, you will always be alone. It hurts. That is life. I was leaving life behind. At that moment, I was alone. There was no doubt in my mind that I would never walk out of here alive. I was scared. I was no longer real; the world was no longer real. I was a walking corpse.

Two minutes later. The clock ticking away my life.

“Emma?”

Hesitation. “Uh, yeah?”

“Are you OK?”

“Uh. Yeah, fine. Fine.”

New waves of despair engulfed me; all I wanted was someone to be with me. I did not want to die alone. I wanted someone to understand, to tell me that it was OK. I knew I was selfish, and I knew it would hurt her.

“Take care.”

I smacked my head against the toilet wall. Idiot.

“Emma? Are you sure you’re OK?”

As I stood up, my head wobbled on my shoulders and the world swam uncertainly before my eyes. The room shrank, and then swayed but never quite returned to normal. I opened the door, legs threatening to give way beneath me. I felt strange, and wondered why her outline was so bizarrely fuzzy.

She looked me straight in the eyes, and I could not avoid her gaze.

We had talked about death and we had a connection. We both agreed that life was a terrible mess, but also that there was no harm in sticking it out and giving it chance after chance; we had nothing to lose. There was a difference between us, however. She was special; the whole world spread out before her and no doubt she was going to take it by storm. It was crucial she never gave up. Me, on the other hand, I was just a mess of insecurity; a time bomb just waiting to explode and desperately trying to avoid hurting too many people in the process.

I began to cry with relief; someone was there. I hugged her, collapsed in her arms but managing to partially hide the fact I could no longer really stand. She looked worried.

“What have you done?”

The truth hit me like a five-ton lorry speeding at me from both directions. Back to reality; I knew I was going to hurt her. I had to get away.

“Something ‘stupid’.”

I began to walk away and deteriorated to a drunken stagger. She grabbed my arm, but I could not meet her eyes.

“You’ve taken something, haven’t you?”

I nodded.

“How much?”

I pulled away from her. I did not want her to get involved.

“A lot. Over a hundred.”

She went silent; it was harder than I could ever have imagined it would be. I tried to get her to go away, but the selfish part of me wanted her to stay. I did not want to die alone. The ground lurched away from me, and my weight fell too far forward. I steadied myself, desperate to get control, to get away. I did not want her to see me like this.

“Look, we can make you be sick. You can throw it up. You will be alright. I could get someone.”

“Please don’t.”

I wanted to die. Life is pleasant and death is peaceful, it is just the transition between them that is hard.

“I’m sorry.”

I knew it was a lame thing to say.

“I still think we can make you be sick. It will be OK. You will be OK.”

I knew it would never be OK, and I would never feel any different. What could I do with a life I no longer wanted?

“Don’t get someone. I want to die. Please don’t do that to me.”

She passed me a bottle of water and I sipped it. The water was ice cold and burned my sore throat. I vomited all over the floor. It was a baby blue powder colour, and my mouth tasted of chemicals. Her eyes opened in alarm and she squeezed my arm unconsciously.

A last desperate attempt: “What have you taken?”

The chemical taste made my eyes sting, and I could feel my head swaying again. I closed my eyes, tears forming and then beginning to trace dirty lines down my cheeks.

“Paracetamol.”

Unsure of how long had passed, lying in a hospital bed, voices echoed around the room, bounced off the walls and hit my eardrums at full volume. Blurred faces danced in my sight whilst hands prodded my arms and life flashed real and then imaginary in my mind. Darkness slowly crept into view, the bland darkness I had craved finally making its appearance, and then I was pulled back into existence with a white light that burned my retina. Not knowing whether I was going to live or die, not knowing whether I even cared or not, I watched the doctors try to save my life.

Hours later, disappointed and worried faces were clearer and more defined; the frowns they wore were sharp and painful. Everyone tried to ask me why, how, when, but I did not want to answer, did not want to talk. Blood tests, blood test results, talking, talking, discussion. Everyone had a purpose to life other than me. There I was, a lazy mess in a seemingly blissfully imperfect world; a scrounger on others’ lives. I was poison, infecting everyone around me. A failure, not even bright enough to kill myself successfully.

A man with dark hair and a medically clean white shirt asked me questions, and I lied. I was fine, and everything was perfect. I believed no one could help me; I wasn’t mad, I didn’t have depression.

“You can’t expect to be left like this, surely?”

“Don’t you see? It won’t make any difference. You can’t change the world can you? No magic wand.” By now, I was getting hysterical, voice reaching a deafeningly high pitch and tears racing down my cheeks. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing can change. Everything is perfect.”

A near death experience is supposed to make you appreciate living more, but for weeks afterward, I only thought of the darkness that had brought such peace and tranquillity. Emptiness was all I desired. I did not want to feel. Life was life; good for most, but bad for me.

I was booked an appointment was a psychiatrist. I had frightened everyone around me. I had to hold on until then, and things would get better. No one could make life perfect, but they would teach me how to pretend it was. We eventually got home after hours of waiting. I went upstairs to bed and curled under the sheets fully dressed. Tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow could take care of itself.

Go to sleep, you might not wake up.