On the Edge
Updated: Jan 12
tw: brief mentions of self-hard & depression
An hour and five minutes.
Rolling around in my bed, I stare at my wrist, peeling away the layer of bohemian bracelets, colorful ones stacked inherently against damaged skin. Then I hold my hand up in the pale moonlight that filters in from my blinds.
My eyes dart around the familiar quarters of my room, the crisp, periwinkle sheets, the untouched storybook, and the incessant ticking of my watch. They mean nothing to me.
Taking a shaky breath in, I slide out of bed. The effort leaves me feeling drained as I walk over to my bathroom. My hands quiver as I flip on the light and take my reflection in.
A pair of hazel lifeless eyes stare back at me. The figure in the mirror is the ghost of the girl she used to be. No longer relentless, no longer free. I reach out towards her, the individual with the raven black hair who won’t live past sixteen.
Her lips quirk the slightest bit upwards, trying desperately for a smile. I find comfort in that, albeit briefly. My hands roam to my throat, which is slightly red and sore. The damage inflicted in the bust of a panic attack. Sighing to myself, I tear my eyes away from the mirror- this is it.
Everything is set in motion as I make the final journey to my staircase. For the first time in months, fear sends shivers through my heart. All I have to do is slip- a simple tumble down the stairs. However, before I can carry forward, a voice stops me.
And so, begins, the battle in my mind.
For I’m truly never alone with my anxiety and depression. They rebel against one another as I type out my final notes- simply a sentence for each person that I love. One forces me to end it all while the other reminds me of my list of failures.
I look up, ready to take the plunge. The only sound audible of my heart with its human cogs working till the very end. Perhaps, I’ll come back, always present when the light touches the sea. I wonder if I can be forgiven for all that I have done?
For not measuring up to the standards expected of me. For never opening up fully to the ones I loved. For caging myself till I became a bitter person incapable of handling jokes.
Try as I might, I have faltered, I have failed. On most days, my motivation to work, to do anything expected of me is at an all-time low.
However, now, I can finally be free.
But I don’t. I sit on the edge of my staircase, hands trembling relentlessly as the voice in my head chides me for not jumping. Something in me snaps, preventing me from shortening the chasm to death’s doors. My depression and anxiety best one another, clashing until I curve into a tiny ball and the darkness washes over me.
In the morning, my parents will find me at the top of the staircase. They see it in my eyes, the silent plea for help- and the very next day I meet my therapist. She’s nice, cordial, asks me about myself. I spill the world’s weight on my shoulders, telling her everything. Of the marks on my wrist, my overbearing guilt, the undying fury I feel towards others, the very same emptiness that resides in me.
Our demons do not decimate in one go. Mine still haven’t, they feed off my trepidation every day, prodding me towards the route of self-harm and suicide. However, now I know that no one’s time is up just yet.
I’m not done with the world.
I’m not done with everything I have.
I’m not done banking on hope.
And neither should you.