Lennon
The gloomy morning came abruptly before my body began to rouse.
I knew what day it was. It was the day my life changed forever—the pivotal moment in time that altered the trajectory of who I was today.
I opened my eyes to face the ceiling above me.
My body felt heavy, immovable. I couldn’t get out of bed. I had no reason to.
I shifted my body weight and curled into the fetal position, squeezing my eyes shut.
It was the anniversary of my dad’s death.
A tear welled behind my lids as my chest began to tighten.
I inhaled a slow, aching breath and exhaled unsteadily.
This happened every year. The pain ebbed and flowed every day, every moment, all year long—but on this day, this day in particular, it stabbed me with every breath I took.
It crippled me, paralyzed me beyond repair.
Rachel always scheduled a session on these days, knowing she couldn’t leave me alone.
She worried that my fears would subside just enough for me to go through with it—that I would give up and take my own life.
She held the delicate balance of recognizing that I wanted to die every day, while knowing I couldn’t do it.
But what if one day I could? What if one day I did?
What a horrible internal conflict for her to carry.
She was so determined to keep me living that she focused on every possible reason for me to live.
It was almost as if she’d forgotten why death sounded so peaceful in the first place.
Maybe if she sat with me more in the pain, she could allow herself to loosen her grip on that fight.
But ultimately, it didn’t matter anymore. The pain was beyond what I could handle. At that moment, I simply needed it to go away.
Fuck.
Rummaging through the disheveled drawers of my mind, I tried to remember what time my appointment with Rachel was.
10:00 a.m. I inhaled deeply, remembering that directly afterward I had group therapy.
If I didn’t kill myself by then, I’d have to go to see Rachel so she wouldn’t send an ambulance—like she did last year.
And if I went to see Rachel, I’d have to go to group. I’d have to face Asher again.
I squeezed my eyes shut, the pressure building so tightly I felt like I might internally combust. My heartbeat thudded against my eardrum. He was too good for me. I saw it every time I was with him; I just couldn’t say it out loud.
There were pieces of his life that have never even brushed against glimpses of anything similar to mine. How could he ever begin to understand what I’ve been through when those realities weren’t even nightmares for him? And if he couldn’t understand me, then he couldn’t love me. Wouldn’t love me.
I whipped the duvet off my body and popped out of bed, the covers strewn across the mattress where I’d been lifeless just moments ago. A moment of madness ran through me like rapid fire. I couldn’t lie there any longer, reliving that day.
The day that everyone showered my mother with sympathy over her loss, while I was shoved aside into a corner.
I don’t remember anyone holding me, anyone offering me their condolences.
No one was there for me. My mother was so deeply lost in her own disarray that I was sloughed to the side, a bad taste in everyone’s mouth that lingered longer than it should have.
At the age of six, I couldn’t fully understand why my dad wasn’t coming home, but I understood there was a painful explanation. People came and went, crowding around my mother, instructing me to give her space, reminding me to be good to her.
What they didn’t realize was that I needed someone to be good to me, too. Someone to hold me. Someone to care for me. Someone to love me.
So I did what I did best as a little girl—I drew pictures.
I drew my mom and me with two angels hovering above us; my baby brother and my father, rendered as disproportionate stick figures with wings.
Two more stick figures held hands, meant to represent my mother and me.
Upon presenting the drawing to cheer her up, she took the page and stared at it for what felt like an eternity.
Her expression was lifeless as she assessed the visual in front of her. Eager for any scrap of approval, I rocked on my heels and whispered, “Do you like it, Mommy?”
Without making eye contact, she took the page and crumpled it in her hands in one swift motion. The crayon drawing—the only version of reality my undeveloped brain could muster—was reduced to a wadded up piece of trash, tossed aside.
My feelings erupted all at once. “Hey! That wasn’t very nice!” I whined.
Before I could even reach for the paper, a sharp burn pooled across my cheek as the back of her hand connected with my face. Tears welled so quickly I didn’t even realize I was crying. My tiny hands reached for my face to comfort the injury as I looked at her with disbelief.
She turned away on her bed, her back to me, and words that escaped her mouth would haunt me forever.
“It should have been you.”
At the time, I didn’t grasp the weight of what that meant.
But after reliving it in my mind over a million times, I knew now.
I knew now what she really thought of me.
I knew now that I should have gone to the store with my dad.
Maybe—just maybe—our lives could have been different. Maybe she could have been different.
My dad’s last day on Earth was the last day I remember feeling any sense of belonging.
His death imprinted itself on my soul. It was because of his death that I learned there were more bad people in this world than good, and that the bad ones were always the ones who survived. What was the fucking point?
I raced around my apartment, manic, desperate for the pain to leave. I stopped abruptly, gripping my matted hair and bending forward, allowing myself to expel a deep, guttural scream. I needed the pain out of my body in any form I could muster, but it refused to release.
After dragging in a shaky breath, I stumbled into the kitchen, ripping open cupboards and the fridge, searching for the vodka I’d bought.
It wasn’t there. I couldn’t remember drinking it all, but I might have. My memory slipped in and out, fractured by long gaps between moments of clarity. I moved to the bathroom, searching for the hydromorphs, knocking aside bottles, lotions, and containers.
Where the fuck were they?
I slammed the mirrored cupboard shut and punched it. The glass exploded, fragments shattering everywhere. I continued smashing the mirror in a fit of lost control until the pain permeated behind my eyes and spilled out into tears.
My body collapsed onto the floor, swallowed by a heated sea of emotions. The sob came from deep in my belly. I leaned against the wall, willing myself to regulate, willing myself to remember where the fucking pills were—anything for reprieve.
My breathing turned heavy and laboured. Tears cascaded down my face, my eyes burning. Breathe in. Draw the top line. Hold. Draw the perpendicular. Breathe out. Draw the ninety-degree line. Hold. Close the shape.
When I opened my eyes, exhaustion settled in. I took in the damage I’d caused—without control, without understanding the consequences.
The thought came again, as it had several times before. But this time, the urge was louder. Clearer. Logical.
I noticed a long shard of broken mirror and reached for it, gripping it in my palm. It fit too well. I squeezed, testing the potential for the cut, numb to the danger.
Holding it up, I stared straight at it.
It could be so easy. It could be done now.
The sharpness of the tip could slide so easily across my skin. It could slice right through my veins, arteries, ligaments, everything. It could do visceral damage. It could end everything in a matter of minutes. Maybe even less.
Placing the blade along my forearm, I allowed the coolness to neutralize against my skin. Goosebumps rose, and I inhaled sharply.
This is it. It has to happen now. It was now or never.
My breathing stabilized. A false calm washed over me. I could do it. I could push past the fear. I could push them all out of my brain. The vile image of my mother could disappear. In the end, it wouldn’t matter because I’d be dead. I’d be dead and it wouldn’t matter what happened to my body.
I would be dead, and this would be over. My God, it would finally be over.
Then a whining sound drifted in from the hallway. It was faint, but I heard it.
My heart slammed against my eardrums as realization struck me like a freight train. Oh my God. The puppy. My puppy. Mine and Asher’s. I scrambled to my feet, tears blinding me as I raced back toward the bedroom I’d fled without thinking.
I was an idiot. I almost left her alone and terrified, with no one to take care of her. I would’ve been no better than the people who left me alone in my life.
I burst into the room and saw her—long-haired, green-eyed—cowering in the corner after making a mess. She’d been trying to tell me she needed to go outside, and I’d been too wrapped up with my own bullshit to see anything else.
Fuck. I was turning into my mother.
I couldn’t become her. That wasn’t the life I wanted for whatever time I had left. No. I needed to be better than that.
I crouched near Nova, guilt flooding me as I saw how frightened she was. I offered her space, no cruelty in my eyes, and slowly lowered myself down next to her. She shook in fear with each slow movement I made in her direction.
“I’m so sorry, Nova,” I whispered. “I shouldn’t have made you wait like that. I’m so sorry.” I took a steadying breath. “You see, I’m new to this whole taking care of others thing, and I forgot. It’s no excuse—I know—but it’s the truth. Can you forgive me?”
We sat there in silence until I felt a cold, gentle nudge against my hand. She tended to a wound on my knuckle by licking it softly, a wound I hadn’t even realized I had. Shame settled in as I realized how little self-control I’d had.
I reached out and scratched behind her ear.
“We can do this together,” I murmured. “Until I can’t anymore. And when that happens, I promise—as sure as anything, with all the certainty in my heart—that Asher will love you so much better than I ever could. But in the meantime, I’ve got you. Okay? I’ve got you…until I can’t anymore.”