Sometimes it's hard to remember the exact circumstances of past events. There's something in the back of my mind about it, but I'm not entirely sure what it is. All I really know is that I'm holding an empty bottle. My stomach is full of water and pills. I'm so very tired.
I've done all the expected tropes. Left a note. Said something cryptic to a parent. It's finally over. Sleep is evasive. My bed isn't comfortable anymore. It doesn't really matter, though, I'm being dragged out of bed by a panicked parent. I'm about to experience something I never thought I would: a stomach pump.
My faith died that night.
I do remember a friend, whom I only ever knew as her user name, "Visions," from the BBS days. She was a couple years older than me. I remember pushing her away, because of my ignorant faith. I had been convinced that if I didn't save her, she would have been punished. She didn't talk to me much after that day. Then she just stopped logging on. I felt I had failed her.
Most of my teenage years are a blur. I'm not sure if I remember things, or make them up as I go. My "formative years" are a strange haze of misery and unknowns. The years sure existed, I'm still here. At least, I think I am.
I know that I resorted to self-mutilation, to cope with the sensation of if I was really still here. A small slice to remind myself that maybe I'm not gone, yet. Depression is a different creature for each of us. Own very own, personally tailored, bundle of cruelty.
Over twenty years later, I still have a psychosomatic reaction totaking pills. My body remembers. Even if I don't.