4 min
Image of 2018
Image of Short Story
Rumination: n. a deep or considered thought about something.
I must look so pathetic sitting on my bed, crying, thinking about how horrible my life is. It’s terribly ignorant of me to feel so incredibly sorry for myself while others clearly have a worse life than me. I mean I have a really good life, my parents both work to provide for my sister and I. I live in the suburbs so my life couldn’t be that bad, and yet here I am. Why won’t these tears go away? What’s wrong with me? Why am I even crying? Stop crying. Stop crying.
“Jamie, dinner’s ready.” mom calls.
“Coming,” I respond while wiping away the tears. I slowly rise from my bed, leaving the comfort and security of my blankets and pillows. I walk to the mirror to check my face for puffiness and any other sign of my uncontrollable sobbing. Good enough. I walk down the hallway and reach the small kitchen. Mom’s there setting the table, dad’s next to her grabbing a plate while thanking her for dinner. My sister, Skylar is nowhere to be seen. She’s with her new obsession, named Jack, who replaced Sam and before him, Zach. Now, it’s only on rare occasions that our family eats dinner with all of us at the same table.
“Thanks for dinner,” I say while taking a scoop of chili out of the crockpot.
“Hope you like it,” she responds with a smile. I take a seat at my usual spot. Mom comes to join dad and me.
“How was your day?” dad asks. I want to say, horrible. I want to tell them that my friends lie about liking each other. That they keep secrets and grudges and are stubborn. I want to say that they don’t care about me. I want to tell them about the immense amount of work I do every day at school, at home, and in my mind. I want to tell them about how my life’s gone to shit. How even the most fun activities that I enjoy always end up looking like this big task that I can’t bring myself to do since I know I don’t have enough power to handle it and even if I would attempt to tackle the task I know it would feel incredibly exhausting.
“Fine,” I say burying the monologue of truth in my throat. “How was work?” I ask in response. The rest of dinner corresponds like any other: my parents asking more about school, work, and my dad occasionally making bland jokes which I pretend to laugh at while my mom and I give each other unimpressed looks. I clean the dishes and trudge back to my room.
Slouching onto my bed I solemnly glance at the limp backpack laying on the ground. Well, I guess I have to do my homework now. I go over, grab the backpack and take out my work. About 10 minutes in my breathing gets heavy, muscles tense, tears fall. No. No. Not again. My body growing continuously more tense by the millisecond. I repeatedly stroke my hair in an unsuccessful attempt to ease my body. Rocking myself back and forth my mind lists off all of my problems. I can do nothing to keep the overwhelming thoughts at bay.
This is how I’m forced to send my time. I’m constantly doing things I don’t want to do just for the specific reason that I won’t be successful without going to school. Or at least that’s what they tell us. I need to put myself to work in order to achieve anything. Why? Why is it that in this day and age in order to accomplish anything we need to constantly work. Kids are forced to set goals and go to school and spend most of our life learning things which nobody will remember when going to college. They should be teaching me how to be happy. How to get through a day without having a breakdown the second I have any time alone. Teaching me how to manage life.
Wait. How is it only that I myself have the problem of constantly feeling overwhelmed, confused, and frustrated? Am I the only one who can’t restrain themselves from taking a situation and blowing it up in my mind? How do others not constantly feel the dread of everyday work which is supposed to feel simple, while I have trouble getting out of bed each morning, taking a shower, getting out of the shower, and getting out of bed?
Looking down I realize I’ve been crying on my math homework. With a swift hit, I watch the notebook tumble off the bed. How is it that my sister and friends have no problems when it comes to balancing their work and social lives. When it comes to my handling my family, friends, and school I’m a complete wreck. But, it’s when I have to organize everything in my brain and my life that it’s completely out of my control. I can’t convince myself to go out with friends or finish the simple math homework which I understand but can’t clearly think well enough to produce an answer for.
I need to stop. I’m being absolutely stupid. Forcing myself to stand up I look in the mirror. My olive skin has now turned to a canvas blotched in red spots. My hair now a wreck caused by my hands pulling and moving in an attempt to calm my anxiety attack. Eyes puffy and watery from tears now prominently shown on my cheeks.
Will I be like this for the rest of my life? Why am I such a mess? None of this makeup would cover up this wreck I’ve made of myself. My face in the mirror changes expressions from sad to mad I feel my ears redden while I clench my teeth. I walk over to my bed and punch it over, and over, and over again. I pick up a pillow and silently scream into it, making sure no one else gears. Kneeling down to the floor I slouch into the fetal position with my face still squished into the pillow, tears again wetting the pillowcase. Heaving for breath between sobs I feel the world collapsing around me and the only thing I feel is pain. The pain is not like I’m physically being hurt, instead it’s like the inside of me is dying.
Would it be better to die? Well people say that the afterworld is heaven or some other holy land which could be the truth. I guess I’ll just have to wait until death takes me. I could just take my life. Wouldn't that be easier for me?
I punch the pillow again and again. No. No. No. No. I can’t do that to myself. I can’t do that to my family. I can’t even bring myself to do that. What’s wrong with me? I need to stop this. Easing myself to my feet I hear my sisters music in the room next to me. When did she even get home? I guess I didn’t hear the door open. Well, I need to tell someone about my messed up brain. I need to tell Skylar. I wouldn’t be able to talk to my parents about this. I’ll have her tell them for me.
My footsteps are heavy, one in front of the other, slowly squishing down the carpeted hallway. What’s actually two feet away feels like an eternity. Despite that, I’m now standing right outside the door leading me to Skylar. I slowly open the door and she’s sitting on her bed, homework laid out, though her and I both know she hasn’t done much of it. I take another step into the room. Breathing in I hold my breath, then breathe out.
“Skylar. I have something to tell you.” She looks up. Taking a deep breath while tears swell up, I choke out the words “I’m suicidal.”

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