Another Teen Statistic

You see it in the news, another teen suicide. You hear about in school, that some kid in your first period wrapped a noose around their throat. Adults gossip with hung heads. Looks like just another kid
who lost the good fight.

And we, as humans, are used to it; because Death is just a statistic
–it doesn’t matter how one goes through with it.

Unless you believe in a God;
because they say that if you kill yourself
it means your soul is lost.

So that Sunday after a life is taken, the Congregation gives a small dedication.
Then it’s over. The wanna-be devout Christians sit around their tables and on their couches
–like no one ever died.

I do the same thing everyday.
Get up, get dressed, and contemplate ways to
pass the time.
I gotta be occupied so that I don’t get a chance to stare off into space, lest my mind wanders. If that happens my thoughts will get darker.
Like how they used to be when I was younger.

I used to want to commit suicide.

At my house, my sister’s husband, he liked to hit me; throw me against hard surfaces, and pretend he couldn’t hear me

screaming and crying, and
begging him to stop–apologizing
blindly
for whatever he knew I’d done,
and what I knew I didn’t do.

When he was done, he’d leave me there, shaking. My sister would stare at me,
like it was just another moment,
and I’d pick myself up off the floor, look for a place where I could be alone,
and cry.
Tell God that if this was to be my life,
I’d rather die.

See, didn’t have that many people I could lean on. My friends all knew the truth,
but kids don’t know the right words to take the edge off.
I couldn’t talk to my family,
because my sister was all I had.

The sister that let

her husband beat on me.

How messed up is that?

Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore. It got to the point where writing and praying, and music meant nothing to even out the score, or to leviate the rage inside my heart.

So with a final desperation
I took a razor blade,
held it against my skin,
and wondered if I could even do it;
then I did.

And for damn near five years
I couldn’t stop.
I had no where to run;
the endorphins were all I ever got.

And the depression escalated.
Got to much. I couldn’t walk home from school without seeing my life flashing before me.
All the different ways I could just
       fade
away. I needed Oxygen
but it felt like my heart
was up in space, just floating.

Then one day I broke down.
Blacked out, smashed my dresser to pieces–
my sister’s husband came up to my room and said I’d better clean it. And when I was done, I sat and thought about everything I almost did,
and I looked at my wrists,
and thought to myself
there must be more than this.

Maybe if I didn’t hope for a Savior
I wouldn’t feel weak waiting.
Maybe I could avoid the inevitable
if I got my act straight.

Now I’ve been clean
for almost two years now,
always tryin’ if I can help it
to make the most of what I’ve been given. But still I gotta make sure I’m preoccupied, because when my mind wanders I still wonder Why.
And when I wonder Why I realize
that this struggle within myself
will continue the rest of my life.

Like, I’m just an evolution
of all the shit that’s been fucked.
And I wonder if getting my act together was ever worth it.

Then I dig in my things and I find two razor blades. Hold them in my hands and contemplate a graze.
And then I press it against my skin. And I see my relapse flashing before me.

I see myself years later,
in a black box going under,
with an epitaph that says,
She Couldn’t Take It Any Longer.

Then I set the blades down.
Walk to my dresser mirror,
wipe my tears, and fake a smile.

(C) Marie Meyers, 2013

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