Chapter 1
19 Years Old
Cold, fall, San Franciscomornings have always been my favorite. The way the breeze smells like the salty bay as the fog tumbles over the water has always brought me peace,stillness, particularly on mornings when I wake up gasping and covered in sweat. I know it’s going to be justone of those days.It’s difficult to shake the feelings of hopelessness and shame that cling to my body long after the nightmares have gone.
I used to let negative feelings swallow me whole, allow my mind to fall through the cracks of the past, drowning in memories of sorrow. Sometimes, I couldn’t even get out of bed – I’d say I wasreflecting,healing, but I wasn’t doing any of that. No, I was justdrowning.
Drowning.
Drowning.
Drowning.
I was in so deep, I either had to get out or give in. Give in to the weight of the water, the pressure on my chest, the deep burn for air in my lungs. Give in and give the fuck up. Let go, and finally just be free. Sometimes, that’s all I wanted to do. Other times, I’d be reminded of why I had to keep going. The sun would finally crack through the gloom and spill through my window, sparking some tiny amount of joy. A text from a friend or a call from my mom would ping on my phone, a reminder to see, to care, tolove.
But God, those days when I’d wake up to the more horrific nightmares, days riddled with such pain, anger, andguilt.The nightmares would cling to me, and the memories I worked so hard to bury would come out to play. They’d dance through my brain, taunting me, regaling my brokenness, my failures. They’d follow me, leaving a fog of nothingness in their wake.
Those days are the worst. They’re days ofchoices.To wrap my car around a tree, or not. To take too many sleeping pills or throw them away. To slice or not to slice.
Today is a day of choices: to jump or not to jump.
I woke up in a state of panic, drenched in sweat, shaking uncontrollably, and screaming loud enough to wake Alyssa, my roommate. She barged into my room already knowing what she’d find, and once again, I had deal with someone who cares and therefore pities me, pities the tiny part of my past she knows.
It’s nothing compared to what plagues me.I let her think what she wants about the cause of my nightmares. I’dprefer pity to disgust any day, but today, the pity is too much.
Today, the pity in her eyes when she came to check on me was trumped by her yet again suggesting I’d be better off living at home with my parents. If I thought that would help take care of “the issue,” as if it’s a matter of where my bed is versus how fucked up my mind is, I’d do it.
Her suggestion leaves me feeling overwhelmingly ashamed and unwanted. My presence makes her uncomfortable, but going home isn’t an option. It’s nauseating knowing that the thing that keeps mehere, my friends and family, also holds them back, that my existence is more of a hindrance than anything else. If I stay, I stay for me. If I leave, I leave for them.
At least, that’s the thought I had this morning. So, I got dressed in some yoga pants and a hoodie, then pulled out the letters I wrote for Mom and Dad years ago, the first time I found myself making choices I never followed through with. The newer, shorter letter I’d written for Alyssa joined them now.
That’s it, just three letters. All my life has amounted to can be summarized in three pieces of paper. Three relationships. Three people who’d notice if I was gone. I left them on the island in the kitchen, grabbed my car keys, and walked out the door. Today was the day to end it all and those were my final goodbyes, neatly wrapped and sealed in small, crisp white envelopes.
I once watched a documentary about the Golden Gate Bridge, about the overwhelming number of people who’ve committed suicide there. There was a survivor on the show who described what it felt like to jump, to fall, tocrash, and to live. People say there’s romance to it, dying at the bridge.
I don’t find it romantic at all. I find it quick, easy. None of the people who love me will need to identify me. Maybe they won’t find me at all. I won’t have to wait for the pills to kick in, won’t have to risk someone pumping my stomach. I won’t have to wait for the blood to spill and risk having done it wrong. Although that man survived, he was an anomaly. It’s almost guaranteed that I won’t. I weigh 120 pounds soaking wet, and I’m not wearing steel-toed boots. I won’t live through this—all it will take is just one step.
The only beauty I find in the situation is that I’ll take my last, gasping breath in this foggy, chilly, fall morning that used to bring me so much joy. I say used to, because after my realization today, I don’t deserve it. I refuse to bring the people around me down anymore. I’ve ruined too many lives: I will ruin no one else.
I pull into the dirt parking lot and leave my white Honda CR V parked in a corner. I only hesitate for a moment when deciding to leave my bag with my keys, wallet, and phone inside; there’s literally no point in taking anything with me. I close the door and look to my left, to the path leading to the bridge, and take the first step. I don’t allow myself to falter or stop; one foot after the other. I walk as quickly as I can. I just want to get this over with. I breathe the foggy air in and out, in and out. I try to expel the memories slamming into me with full force.
Do you know what a whore is, Little Doll? It’s you.
This is your fault. You know that right? You did this.
Do you see her face? It’s your fault she’s broken.
One foot in front of the other. Keep going. Don’t stop. It’s almost over. My feet pound on the trail until I finally feel the harshness of metal beneath my feet. The bridge.
You are disgusting.
Trash.
Filthy whore.
Slut.
Ugly.
