HOME | DD

Description
Contest Entry for MyxSuicidalxRomance

“How do you think this happened? The quietness, depression, fear of social situations..”

“There’s always a question to answer, isn’t there?”

“You never do answer them.”

“You never have figured out why.”

And it was over. One more session, one more time I didn’t have to be honest with myself. Nothing happened. I never saw things. Never heard anyone that wasn’t there, I didn’t have a problem. The lies I told myself were almost always believed by me, but never by them.

Entering my room, I slammed the door. I felt it coming, I can’t keep myself numb for that long. But I can try. In a scalding shower, I grabbed the razor. I’d always thought about grabbing a razorblade, or a knife, and slicing the hell out of myself. That was the voices. Yes, they’re there. Not anymore, not very often. It wasn’t one of the classic little addict situations, I listen to music. It was blasting right now, ‘Bullet With Butterfly Wings’ which is my best friends favorite song, and I’m filled with thoughts of her and the coffee shop up the road from our house. We live next door to each other, and in between us is a wooden house that both of us are too big to play in. But we do it anyways.

It’s so small, but there’s a ladder leading to a plywood balcony. On the bottom there’s a cabinet where we keep it stocked with sleeping bags and junk food. It’s lined with plastic, so when it rains our stuff is safe, but if it doesn’t we can sneak out and fall asleep on the raised patio.

It’s music that frees me, numbs me. Because behind every song, no matter whether or not I’ve heard it, there’s a story. If I have, it may be the first time I listened to it, a party I heard it at, or the story line of the lyrics. The latter is how I can block out everything, by concentrating and learning the lyrics and interpreting them. The words are the most important part.

By the time I finally realized my skin was becoming red and raw, there was nothing to do but turn it off. Bent over, I turned off the water and absently rubbed at the scars I received in a car accident last year.

We were driving and missed our turn off. It was a dead end, but we didn’t see it, and went flying into an above-ground swimming pool, and then a garage.

Another song, Earthquake. Eighth grade, and I loved a boy. Thought I did. Who knows, now? I don’t even remember his name, nor what I thought of him then. I make myself forget about him, he’s not even here anymore. Not on earth. So why allow him into my heart? I lost him, and gained those scars. All for a couple of drinks.

Because my memory was terrible, and I needed a way to make everything go away, my mom thought of this. Listen to the song, attach memories to it, and then every time you listen to a song, you will always have something to think of. And I always do.

But what’s hard is when I have therapy sessions. They’re gradually getting closer together, and with more people.

“We just want you to get over this,” They tell me. They. So vague an answer, so scary a thought. That I won’t be able to define 'them', nor 'they', in four years, because there’s so many of them. My mom, father, sisters, friends, therapists…

And I do go through the therapists. Because I am the type to get dependent on someone, they make me switch people as soon as I get comfortable. I have one tomorrow morning at eight o’clock with a different one than I saw today.

Falling asleep to the CD that I always do, more specifically to My Chemical Romance, I curled into my pillow. It replaced the one that used to be there, but can’t anymore.

The thought made me cry.

___________________

Walking into the building, I sigh. Today will be hard, because I haven’t thought about him in so long, and they don’t let me listen to music in session.

“Go ahead and sit down, Delilah.” I nodded, and placed myself in a soft, plush chair.

“Why are you here?”

“Look in your file, I’m sure you know.”

“I’m not a normal therapist..” And she smiles so warmly, and I want so much to believe her. I’m so wary of anything called trust.. “I want to talk about the people you lost, not why you are you. I am here because you need to talk about them.. I don’t believe you need to talk about you. So tell me, who is this?”

She held to me a picture of him. Of the person I relied on, I talked to. Braden. And I now have to live without him. The thoughts, the songs, the memories flooded my mind.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I asked the woman I didn’t even remember the damn name of. What gives her the right to do this? The tears running, my nose slowly closing off.

“Because it needs to be done.”

__________________

At home.

___________________

I knew it needed to be done. But I felt every small particle of my heart, of my very being, being ripped, and sliced, and torn out of my body. I was dying, if only because I was trying to let myself live again, and to live without my love. I didn’t want to live, but god damn if I was going to give up that easily.

And through every tear, every scream, every piece of harm I put myself through, I knew deep inside my heart that it had to happen. That it would have happened sooner or later.

Eventually, I would have to give into them… to myself, and to even him.

Some time, I would have to allow myself to let it all out.

So now I’m glad that at that time, I finally let them raid my mind.

With another scream, I endured the final stages of the brain surgery that saved my life.

Description
Contest Entry for MyxSuicidalxRomance

“How do you think this happened? The quietness, depression, fear of social situations..”

“There’s always a question to answer, isn’t there?”

“You never do answer them.”

“You never have figured out why.”

And it was over. One more session, one more time I didn’t have to be honest with myself. Nothing happened. I never saw things. Never heard anyone that wasn’t there, I didn’t have a problem. The lies I told myself were almost always believed by me, but never by them.

Entering my room, I slammed the door. I felt it coming, I can’t keep myself numb for that long. But I can try. In a scalding shower, I grabbed the razor. I’d always thought about grabbing a razorblade, or a knife, and slicing the hell out of myself. That was the voices. Yes, they’re there. Not anymore, not very often. It wasn’t one of the classic little addict situations, I listen to music. It was blasting right now, ‘Bullet With Butterfly Wings’ which is my best friends favorite song, and I’m filled with thoughts of her and the coffee shop up the road from our house. We live next door to each other, and in between us is a wooden house that both of us are too big to play in. But we do it anyways.

It’s so small, but there’s a ladder leading to a plywood balcony. On the bottom there’s a cabinet where we keep it stocked with sleeping bags and junk food. It’s lined with plastic, so when it rains our stuff is safe, but if it doesn’t we can sneak out and fall asleep on the raised patio.

It’s music that frees me, numbs me. Because behind every song, no matter whether or not I’ve heard it, there’s a story. If I have, it may be the first time I listened to it, a party I heard it at, or the story line of the lyrics. The latter is how I can block out everything, by concentrating and learning the lyrics and interpreting them. The words are the most important part.

By the time I finally realized my skin was becoming red and raw, there was nothing to do but turn it off. Bent over, I turned off the water and absently rubbed at the scars I received in a car accident last year.

We were driving and missed our turn off. It was a dead end, but we didn’t see it, and went flying into an above-ground swimming pool, and then a garage.

Another song, Earthquake. Eighth grade, and I loved a boy. Thought I did. Who knows, now? I don’t even remember his name, nor what I thought of him then. I make myself forget about him, he’s not even here anymore. Not on earth. So why allow him into my heart? I lost him, and gained those scars. All for a couple of drinks.

Because my memory was terrible, and I needed a way to make everything go away, my mom thought of this. Listen to the song, attach memories to it, and then every time you listen to a song, you will always have something to think of. And I always do.

But what’s hard is when I have therapy sessions. They’re gradually getting closer together, and with more people.

“We just want you to get over this,” They tell me. They. So vague an answer, so scary a thought. That I won’t be able to define 'them', nor 'they', in four years, because there’s so many of them. My mom, father, sisters, friends, therapists…

And I do go through the therapists. Because I am the type to get dependent on someone, they make me switch people as soon as I get comfortable. I have one tomorrow morning at eight o’clock with a different one than I saw today.

Falling asleep to the CD that I always do, more specifically to My Chemical Romance, I curled into my pillow. It replaced the one that used to be there, but can’t anymore.

The thought made me cry.

___________________

Walking into the building, I sigh. Today will be hard, because I haven’t thought about him in so long, and they don’t let me listen to music in session.

“Go ahead and sit down, Delilah.” I nodded, and placed myself in a soft, plush chair.

“Why are you here?”

“Look in your file, I’m sure you know.”

“I’m not a normal therapist..” And she smiles so warmly, and I want so much to believe her. I’m so wary of anything called trust.. “I want to talk about the people you lost, not why you are you. I am here because you need to talk about them.. I don’t believe you need to talk about you. So tell me, who is this?”

She held to me a picture of him. Of the person I relied on, I talked to. Braden. And I now have to live without him. The thoughts, the songs, the memories flooded my mind.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I asked the woman I didn’t even remember the damn name of. What gives her the right to do this? The tears running, my nose slowly closing off.

“Because it needs to be done.”

__________________

At home.

___________________

I knew it needed to be done. But I felt every small particle of my heart, of my very being, being ripped, and sliced, and torn out of my body. I was dying, if only because I was trying to let myself live again, and to live without my love. I didn’t want to live, but god damn if I was going to give up that easily.

And through every tear, every scream, every piece of harm I put myself through, I knew deep inside my heart that it had to happen. That it would have happened sooner or later.

Eventually, I would have to give into them… to myself, and to even him.

Some time, I would have to allow myself to let it all out.

So now I’m glad that at that time, I finally let them raid my mind.

With another scream, I endured the final stages of the brain surgery that saved my life.