Story #13

The first time I thought about killing myself, I was 13 years old. I came home from another terrible day at school and had no one to talk to. I was nothing like my powerful mother or my peacemaking father. They joined forces and created a wimp. That was me: Windy the Wimp.

Even my name was weak. Windy. The kids at school called me Whiny Windy. Every day I ate lunch in the bathroom and cried afterwards. I’d come home and converse with my parents who honestly thought I came from another planet. I used to think I was switched at birth.

I was 15 years old the second time I thought about killing myself. A cute boy randomly asked me to be his girlfriend  and I thought everything had changed. I saw him in a few of my classes, but we never talked. I should’ve known that it was too good to be true. It was all a dare. He didn’t even bother talking to me again. His actual girlfriend wrote me a note calling me trash and suggested that I kill myself. I would’ve taken her advice had my parents been at work.

I was 23 years old the last time I thought about killing myself. I managed to get accepted into a great college. It was mt senior year and the stress with tests and upcoming finals was getting to me. I managed to go through almost all four years of college without making any friends. I requested a roommate every year, and every time they met me, they thought I was weird.

I had a 2.0 GPA overall and the final exams could make or break me. I called my parents for guidance, but they didn’t understand the amount of pressure I felt. After I took my first final, I knew I failed. I answered half the questions and left the other ones blank.

When I was 23 years old, I decided to kill myself. I wanted a painless ending. Turns out those are hard to come around. I knew swallowing pills could end violently or I could be saved. I knew a gun was out of the question, as was walking into traffic, or drowning myself. I decided to trake out my sharpest knife. I laid in the bathtub and made long, vertical cuts. It hurt, but not as much as living. I didn’t write a letter to anyone saying sorry because I wasn’t sorry. Maybe the next life will be better. Maybe I’ll belong. Maybe…

Daaaamn, Eboni! Back at it again with the sad stories. Typical.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s