Forever Nine

Emma CrowE

Content Warning: Suicide

Bare hands, soft from age and covered in the sticky goo of long-gone chocolates, tightened their grip on colored rope. Just a bit tighter, I thought to myself. A bit tighter and my feet would float from the hardwood floor. I could leave, breathe, escape the fungus threatening to overtake my brain.

The walls closed in on me with every breath I took. On a struggled inhale, the brick wall to my right smacked against my skull. My brain rattled around inside its casing, jumbling my disoriented thoughts.

“If you are under the age of 18 you are legally considered a minor and we cannot guarantee confidentiality from your parents/guardians.”1 The reason I stopped trusting my therapist. Held my trauma so close to my chest it fused with my ribcage.

My fingers cramped, my hand became stiff, and I begged for my parents to hear my struggle. The scratch of rope against my skin, the strangled gasp that passed through my chapped lips. Dad had a wild cherry flavored Chapstick on his nightstand.

Students passed by my hollow body. Their judgmental eyes pierced the last vestiges of my strength. “Who does she think she is?” Their bodies seemed to ask. “She’s just a loser. A nobody.” As the seconds flew by, the outsiders blurred into one entity. Anxiety, depression, and insecurity dressed in a trench coat.

“If you are in crisis during clinic hours you can contact us at any time during office hours, no appointment needed.”2 My mental health does not wait for office hours. Depression is not a 9-5 job, but an all-consuming wave I drown in.

Flat feet met the cool faux tiles of the kitchen. He stirred our dinner, some kind of stew, in a pot on the stove. An admission poured from my lips, half-baked and void of explanation. A painting without a title. A poem without an author. A child without the will to live.

Droplets cascaded down my face, unbothered by our audience. My tears splashed against the scuffed tile. My breakdown had its own soundtrack, but it was not one I wanted to listen to on repeat.

“During Covid-19, you are encouraged to CALL rather than walking into the building.”3 Pick up the phone and dial seven numbers, plus the area code. Tap your fingers on your plywood table as you wait. Let your baby blue nail polish chip away slowly. Please hold.

I was not the only one in the house the next morning. One sister noisily slept down the hall, the other tapped her converse against the concrete steps. Unreleased screams vibrated through me. If I had my own theme song, it would be that.

I couldn’t do it anymore. The weight on my shoulders threatened to crack my spine, and with it my will. It was then that I began to give up. My body slumped on the floor, begging someone to crush me with the sole of their dirty, grass-stained tennis shoe.

“If you have concerns that you might be experiencing symptoms of depression, bipolar disorder, anxiety or other mental health disorders, there are some brief screening tools available to help you figure it out.”4 Tools are useless to someone who cannot open her eyes in the morning. Let the sunrise come and go. Take me with it.

I went to school that day with a joyful mask in place. I smiled and greeted the people I thought I remembered from the day before. All I could do was play the part of a dutiful student, pretend I wanted to be alive, when all I wanted was to sit in the darkness of my room in silence.

Goodbye. Not to myself, but to the school that tore me down. Brick by brick, hope by hope, they stripped me of myself. It was time for a fresh start somewhere with people who pulled me from the darkness with their bare hands.

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[1-4] https://www.cwu.edu/medical-counseling/counseling-clinic

Emma CrowE is a writer from Washington state. Her work focuses mainly on feminism and mental health. She hopes that her work empowers others as it has empowered her. Her poetry and prose can be found in Manastash Literary Journal and Beyond Words Literary Magazine. Find her on Twitter @em_joyous.