Letters Written in White (7 page)

When we lost my brother, it was such a massive blow to our family. I grieved for him desperately and my mother was wrecked. When I think about what it would do to her to lose another child, it breaks my heart, but the bigger heartbreak is what I put my family through daily. This illness is a double-edged sword. Either way there’s pain.

I wash my pale face. As I blot the wetness away with a dry washcloth, the darkness of the circles under my eyes taunt me. Two gray half-moons rest beneath my sad emerald eyes. I long for the days when these eyes smiled. Dragging a brush through my hair, I cringe when I realize how much hair I’ve lost and continue to lose.

Stress.

Anxiety.

That’s what Google says is most likely the cause of it. I can’t eat, and even the most basic of hygiene care takes up a ton of my energy daily. I went five days without showering until today. I don’t know how I got from who I once was to this. It’s been so long since I got my eyebrows waxed they are nearly grown together in the center. I open the bag I brought in here days ago and look for a pair of tweezers. Instead I find the package of straight-blade eyebrow shapers I bought but never used. I open the clear packaging and pull out the one with the pastel yellow handle. I grasp the small plastic handle and angle the glimmering blade against my skin between my brows and shave downward. Just as I push down, I feel a tiny pinch and sting. A small red dot begins to grow bigger where I pushed down on the blade.

“Ouch,” I whisper.

I set the shaper down and grab the washcloth from before and hold it to the cut. Never having used these before, I didn’t realize how sharp they are. I pull the washcloth away from my skin, and the bleeding has already stopped. It’s a minor cut, not even visible unless up very close to it. Deciding to forgo doing my eyebrows after all, I pick up the shaper to throw it away when that voice in my head sneaks in.

It’s sharp.

It’s sharp enough to cut deep.

It can go deep enough to end your pain.

There would be no more anxiety.

Everyone would be better off without you.

Set yourself free.

Set them free.

Bleed it all away.

I’ve fought this voice for so long. I look at the blade and then back in the mirror. My chin begins to quiver and my eyes fill with glassy tears. My chest moves up and down erratically, and suddenly my body yields to the sadness carried on my breath. A grand sense of defeat washes over me, finally agreeing with the voice in my head. My shoulders drop an inch, and the heaviness on my heart eases.

It’s time to let go.

It’s time to give in.

The tears fall from my eyes and splash into the sink below. I watch them trickle down to the drain and disappear. I want to go with them. I want to disappear too. It’s time for me to recognize that this sickness is so deeply braided into me that it would be impossible to ever separate it from who I once was. Dying doesn’t even scare me anymore. I’ve been slowly dying for sometime now, so the actual idea of death seems like a certainty more than a choice.

Depression. It’s this thing that has brought me to this awful yet obvious point of clarity. Isn’t it odd that this word is what’s used to describe futile things like the aftermath of a boy breaking a girl’s heart, how one might feel on rainy days or when things in life aren’t going your way, and then this same word is used to describe how someone feels at the point of suicide, the point of not wanting to live another day? I shake my head at the cataclysmic differences between these things. It’s strange how a word can be used so lightly. It’s scary how much power that same word can hold.

Writing a letter seems cruel. Not leaving a letter seems cruel. Neither option feels right. Nothing about planning my own death should feel
good
. In fact, it should feel so wrong that I'd decide not to go through with it. Sadly, nothing feels more right to me anymore. The thought of letting go, which is how I see it, makes me feel weightless. Thinking I'll never go to bed another night weighed down by such immense dread about the upcoming day feels freeing. Not waking up with invisible hands wrapped around my neck sounds relieving. Silencing the endless war in my head is so appealing it makes me long for the choice more and more each and every day. My life and the people in it are a non-stop chattering fog I try to navigate daily.

I look around and I see them, I hear them, but I feel detached from it all. It's as if I'm in the center of a spinning room, floating, with no way to stop it. Only they don't see or feel the spinning. I’m suffocating. They’re breathing. I want to be them. I envy them. How much I wish I were them consumes me. Their smiles and laughter dangle in front of me like savory pieces of food. I'm like a hungry beggar. If I had a tin cup I'd hold it out and jangle its loose coins begging them for a scrap of their happiness. But just like beggars aren’t really seen, my sickness is invisible to others. They choose not to see it,
to see me
. Because to see me is to see my sickness. It’s who I've become. Slowly but surely it has transformed me from the inside out. It has crept into my flesh and made a home inside my bones. There's no escaping it. I can't evade something that now owns me. All I want is to surrender to it.

I open the spiral notebook that sits on the nightstand and click the pen. I’ll write the letter, painful as it may be. Nothing’s worse than continuing the cycle of ups and downs I put myself and family through on a daily basis. In reality, this letter, this choice—it’s the kindest gift I can give them.

Dear Grayson,

The darkest days of our lives can haunt us or they can mold us into a more resilient person. Our most defining moments were the times we fell, broke, gave in, and made grave mistakes. Life is one grand journey of highs and lows interlaced with regret, death, sorrow, love, happiness, and failure. Looking back, I can see the depths of a fiery Hell where I met face to face with soulless demons.

Today I’m face to face with an old yet familiar demon. He’s closer to me than a lover or a friend. He knows me better than I know myself. This demon knows how to seduce me and prey on my weaknesses. His faceless and heartless hold on me is unyielding. It’s been a while since he visited. A little part of me always knew he’d come again. He’s visited me numerous times in my life. I remember them like numbers recorded in a dark vault nestled in the back corners of my mind. The reasons he came to me were all different, yet the same over the years. Each time he pushed. Each time I fell down. Each time I’ve gotten up…until now.

Like waves, the memories flood my mind; so many days, moments and feelings crashing into one another. There’s so many.

Number 1,789

I’m in bed and keep thinking about how there’s no reason to wake up.

Number 1,321

I’m lonely. I wonder why I can’t seem to design a smile on my face for you the way you do for me. I yearn to feel whole and happy. Yearning turns into burning and I just want to be ashes.

Number 963

I want love. I believe I’ll never really have it, especially not from you. You’re too good for all of my bad.

Number 719

I’m tired. I’m always tired. Today, I’m really tired. I live in a heavy fog and it won’t stop following me. I don’t even know why…

Number 450

I’m fat on the outside, ugly on the inside. Clothes won’t fit my body. My feelings won’t fit into a box. I now look on the outside like I feel on the inside.

Number 298

You’re back again. You taunt me with soft words in my ear: “Jump.” Today it’s because I’m a terrible parent and awful person. I don’t deserve this role. I don’t deserve life.

Number 111

I don’t know why you came today. You’re uninvited. You always do that. I’m a junkie for your temptations and you show up hoping I’ll take that final step and fall for your low because you know it’s for a high; it’s for a goodbye.

Number 84

I hate me. I don’t think I’ll ever stop.

Number 62

It’s too hard, too much. The cloud is too heavy and dark today. She whispers to me, “Give up.”

Number 41

I’m invisible. I’m too visible.

Number 23

Where did you come from today? How do you creep in when I least expect you? What’s wrong with me?

Number 10

Stop. Go away. Not today.

Number 4

It’s just a phase. She will stop. She must.

Number 1

I want to die; no longer exist. I have no idea why I would think this way. This is the first time I’ve ever felt this heavy weight and pull toward such a dark place. I’ve never felt like this was the only option, until today. I hope I never have another day like this. I hope this demon I’m now facing never visits again.

Fall down 1,789 times.

Get up 1,789.

Today I’ve fallen again.

He’s back.

I can’t get up this time.

Number 1,790

I’m sorry, Grayson. I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so, so sorry. My babies deserve better.

Today I won’t get up.

Today I say goodbye.

Love,

Riah

I MASSAGE THE bridge of my nose briefly before reaching for the doorknob. She’s been sleeping in the spare bedroom off and on for weeks now. I hate how she closes herself off when she’s in one of her down times. I try to understand. I try to be supportive.

I try and I fail.

I let her sleep this morning. Mornings are the worst for her, so I get the kids ready when I can, especially when she’s in a really bad place. Right now, she is. I don’t like leaving without saying goodbye, so I turn the knob to go in and kiss her, hopefully without waking her up. The door is locked. I twist a little harder and wonder why she’d lock the door. She’s never done that before. We did fight last night before she went to bed. I sigh and recall the terrible things I said to her out of anger.