I wrote my mother a suicide note when I was nine. Well, not really a suicide note, I didn’t intend on killing myself; I just really felt like I wanted to. My dad had put me back on the sugar pills, insistent that his daughter was not crazy and that it was all just something that every child goes through. Insistent that if I thought I was taking my medication my symptoms would go away. He is an airline pilot, and he was gone half of the time when I was a child. He wasn’t home enough to see the severity of my disease. Only my mother, who stayed at home with my sister and myself, saw what I was going through.
"I just don’t see the point in living a life that is filled with this feeling"
I folded the note and left it on my mother’s bed, too shy to do so in person.
She called my dad. Left him a voice mail. “I’m putting her back on her medication, if you have an issue with that then don’t plan on coming home”
Eventually the fight over my sanity drove them apart. I was the knife that finally broke my parents’ marriage.
Dr. Korger was a wonderful, gentle man who always reminded me of Dr. Seuss. He had a big leather couch (cliche I know) and an exotic fresh water fish tank. I would talk to the fish at first, shy and confused and in the fourth grade.
Diagnosis: Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Panic Disorder, Depression. Also talk of Bipolar Disorder, but age seemed to mellow that part out a bit. 75 Mg of Zoloft, taken once daily.
I don’t ever want to forget these things, I’m just so tired of carrying the guilt.
In the moments where my brain is on fire, my teeth are digging into my skin, my wrists are numb from icy tap water and my shoulders are stretched tight from scolding hot bath water, I am still nine years old.