Rush Hour

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I look back to the bridge that’s all lit up. The two people who swiftly passed us on their bicycles are long gone. Below me, I see cement tile laid out from the person’s back door. Red cement tile-looking blocks that lead to ivy bushes lining the cement walls down to the sidewalk. This would be it, I thought. This is where I need to land, as I set my sites on the cracked four reddish-brown tile looking blocks that are broken. Just like me. Everything seems to have different meaning these days. It’s all a somber metaphor for my frail, cheesy heart. Everything’s meaning has deepened. I used to love writing essays in school so I could really break things down in depth and get to know the meaning of what I was supposed to write about. It seems like I look at every single thing as a life lesson in an essay format. My mind just never shuts up. And I want it gone, I want it all to go away. My friend comes out for a second to the balcony I stand on. I ask her if I can be alone and she walks back inside after a shocked, “Oh, sure!” I turn back around. It really is a beautiful night. It’s so quiet though, I wonder where everyone is. I start to wonder what would happen if I didn’t die. What if I jump and it just really fucks me up? Story of my life, I can’t get anything right! Then I think of my best friend whom I’m so close to it’s like we’re sisters. What would I tell her in my goodbye letter. What would I tell my mom? I hope she’ll be able to make it through this. My entire family even. But it doesn’t make me stop. It makes me hesitate but not stop as I lift my leg over the railing. Swiftly, I put it back down. What if this isn’t the right choice? I think to myself. What if I do this and life had something special planned for me, like maybe I’d get out of this illness. Yeah, right. That sounds highly unlikely but nevertheless, still sounds great. At least I’ll have something to dream about if I make it. Putting my leg back up, I hear, “What ARE you DOING?! It’s one of my best friends from the car earlier. “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know anything anymore.” I started to cry as she put I sat down and she accompanied me, putting her arm around me. “Are you ok?” She asked. Finally, I was going to come out with it to someone other than my parents. “No,” I said. “I’m not ok anymore. I don’t know what to do.” I told her all about my Dr.s visit and how I get bad thoughts a lot. How my mind frame has changed and none of it’s noteworthy. I tell her about how I cry all of the time. Almost every night before bed. And sometimes during the day, I get triggered. How I feel like such a failure. How I don’t know what to do, just that I want it to be over, it’s so awful to have such a thing. She comforts me and we sit outside for awhile. The wind hits me and suddenly everything seems so loud. So much so my mind feels a little dizzy. There’s too much going on in there. I just want some peace. I’ve been dealing with these illnesses long enough, I’d thought. When does this damn thing go away? What if I have to deal with it for life? I think. Or better, how worse off would life be dealing with me in it this whole time? I want out of here.