ATTENTION: This is indeed a situation I’ve found myself in, note how I described it as an autobiographical narrative; however, I am no longer dealing with thoughts or situations like this. Just enjoy the read!
———————–

Moriah Kiepke
Mrs. Blanchette
English II, P. 5
April 17, 2018
Autobiographical Narrative

Nobody tells you about the pain life will inflict upon you, or the heartbreak and self hate that may torment you all your waking hours. Nobody tells you about crippling depression or addiction to self harm. Nobody warns you that you’re probably going to be the person that will end up destroying you, and if you’re not, then it’ll be the person you love the most. And they certainly will never tell you that sometimes it’s both. The toughest part of it all, however, is finding the strength to save yourself in the midst of it all– when there is no strength left.

I find myself fighting for everything as I reach a speed of 45 miles an hour. My mind begins wandering, and as my speed increases, insults come just as quick. Why can’t I do anything right? I’m so freaking stupid. I’m at 55 miles an hour five seconds later. Why can’t I be good enough? I don’t belong here. Now I’m going 70 miles an hour in a 65… Would anyone miss me if I was gone? Three more seconds later and I’m at 85 miles an hour with the pedal to the floor… if I just close my eyes.

If I close my eyes and let the car drift in whichever direction it chooses, and I just relax and give into my exhausted body it won’t be suicide. It’ll just be another unfortunate accident. So, I let my droopy eyes close and let my numbness overtake me. I can’t wait until the crash– the moment I finally feel something. Maybe if I don’t die first, the pain will finally wake me up from this exhausting slumber I’m drifing in and out of. Maybe the physical pain will override all this mental pain that just won’t seem to heal. This is my only chance at getting better– this is the only help I need.

I let out a sigh and open my eyes. I didn’t even let enough time pass for me to cross over the mid-line. My helplessness returns, and my calmness fades while my anxiety reboots my heart. I look down at my speedometer and read 102. That’s fast enough to lose control with just a simple jerk to the right, or even better, to the left while a semi is only a few yards ahead. However, I can’t just make myself endanger someone else, so instead I take out my phone and begin texting a friend.

“Hey, thanks for letting me come over.” I type, taking my time and not looking up towards the road until I double check and then triple check my spelling and grammar. You know, just to be sure I don’t make myself sound stupid and illiterate. Once the text is sent, I gently lay my phone on the seat beside me, taking my time to make sure that the ringer is on and that I can easily reach over to pick it back up once I get a text back. I’m oddly disappointed when I look up to find a dead road. I’m alone here, just like everywhere else, and apparently driving dangerously is not my thing– I somehow managed to stay in my lane.

I feel dread rush through every part of my being as I realize I’m almost home now. A black, thick curtain falls on top of me and the suffocation begins. A song comes on the radio that brings back memories of my former boyfriend and now on top of everything else, tears start leaking down my cheeks. I slam my hands down on my steering wheel and sob, wanting nothing more than an end to this aching in my bones. My heart races and my breaths become short and sporatic making me light headed. I want to die.

God, please let me die.

Let me die.

Please, just let me die.

I hear my phone ding as a text comes in, and this time, I make sure to drive myself into the middle of the road, pedal to the floor, gaining speed at 110 miles an hour before I pick up my phone. There’s no way I’m messing this up again.

“Of course! You’re welcome anytime!” The text reads. And then another one comes in right after:

“Put your phone down while you’re driving. :)”

I almost laugh at the ridiculousness of this. I start to steer with my elbows, still in the middle of the road, as I text back.

“Texting and driving at 120 miles an hour isn’t dangerous is it? Haha.”

Part of me hopes that this friend of mine will call me– will call me and calm me down. Another part of me worries that they’ll take things to another level and call my parents instead. The thought of my parents hearing about this makes me heart stop dead in it’s tracks. I don’t need their nagging and worry on top of everything else.

“Slow down!” The next text reads.

“I think I’m good actually.” I send back. “Don’t worry though. I’ll be fine.”

In anger I throw my phone on the floor. Angry at myself. Angry at the fact that that’s all my friend has to say. Angry that they didn’t even realize that this was me telling them that I’m struggling. Angry at the whole world for damning me.

But mostly. I’m just tired.

I slowly get back into my lane and decrease my speed. I set my cruise at 65 miles an hour until I turn on my street.

I pull into my driveway.

I’m numb.

I turn off the engine.

I’m tired.

I walk into the house.

I want to die.

My parents say hi.

I smile as wide as I can and I make sure to make everyone laugh.

I’m okay.

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