Memoir... Melancholy Polly... edited

Hillary wakes up from a not-so-restful night.  Her pupils are dilated, and her eyes feel swollen. She glances around her indigo room, taking in the world.  Eventually, Hillary sits up and climbs down from her bed, wincing as she puts weight on her burned hand, a reminder of the night before (of all nights recently).  Those cold, November nights in Carolina get more and more difficult to survive.1

She drags herself to the bathroom and flips on the dim lights. She squints as her head throbs with pain.  Hillary has gotten her period again.  She finds it strange to finally be bleeding when it isn’t self-inflicted.2

Upon arriving at school, Hillary is greeted by makeup covered fakes, friends, and half-hearted hugs.  She clutches the sleeves of her jacket and struggles to breathe. She feels suffocated in this hallway, though there is plenty of room to breathe.3

Class is spent trembling, and counting minutes.  Her leg is an infinite earthquake.  Hillary barely speaks up.  She puts on a happy face and fights to smile, fooling the oblivious crowd.  Students write fast-paced notes and fill out worksheets in a rush.  Hillary’s is blank.  She draws endless pictures while tears well up in her eyes, and the world becomes too much for her.  She drops her pencil and stares at a wall.  Suddenly panicking, she heads to the bathroom.  “The air is fresher when you’re alone,” she whispers to herself.  She stares into the mirror and asks herself what’s wrong.  She wants to collapse and crawl into a corner hugging her knees, but she resists.  She holds herself up with quivering arms.4

As soon as she returns to the classroom, she trembles again.  A migraine starts to form that follows her through Geometry. Her neck tenses up causing more pain.  She slips into her own world, wanting to cut, wanting to leave and wanting everything to disappear. Hillary puts her jacket over her head as she has done often to escape the world.  She closes her eyes, but the world keeps going; she can’t shut it out.5

Dr. Mouzon’s office is cold.  Hillary stares at the dull fabric of the chairs.  “How have you been since I last saw you?” The blonde doctor says with a curious look.  Of course, Hillary lies.  She doesn’t want to say she burned herself, and she wants to cut, and her world is collapsing, because that would only worsen things. 6

“I’m doing ok.  I’m a lot better, thanks,” Hillary says with a downward glance. 7

In the previous week, Hillary had nearly gone to a mental hospital.  She was left with no choice.  She was forced to go directly from Dr. Mouzon’s office to the hospital in Anderson.  The only thing that kept her from staying was finding out that they did not take adolescents in that hospital.8

Hillary had sort of lost her psychiatrists trust since then.  Only her mother’s nightly checks of arms and legs kept her from cutting. She knew if she did, the next stop was the mental hospital.  Recently she had started burning herself as a replacement for cutting. She didn’t like the feeling as much as cutting, but there was nothing else she could do.9

Dr. Mouzon tries to be nice and comforting, but Hillary is anxious to leave.  Questions keep coming at Hillary and she mechanically beats them off one-by-one.  Minutes pass, and somehow, she makes it through.  An appointment is made for the next week (another day to dread).10

Hillary gets home; she goes directly to her room.  Lighter in hand, she clicks it starting a flame.  She glares at the glimmering fire.  Seconds go by as she looks into the yellow-orange glow.  She picks up her thumb and places the top of the lighter to the palm of the other hand, biting her lip as the pain runs through.  She quickly lifts the lighter up and takes out a bright pink birthday candle.  Clicking the lighter again, she ignites the candle.  She puts the lighter on the floor and switches hands with the candle.  Now, Hillary’s hand is open with a candle above.  She is staring into the flame and watching as the wax melts and makes a bigger and bigger drop.  Its fall is anticipated.  Her hands are shaking as the drop leaves its home to join her skin.  A jolt of pain shoots through her, but she waits for the second drop.  Again the pink liquid falls and stings her skin.  She gazes at the drop as it turns solid, becoming a part of her skin.  She blows out the candle in one quick breath and lets it fall to the floor.  Suddenly, Hillary is exhausted.  She collapses and lay there feeling the burn.  Her hand feels hot and cold at the same time. Her mind races.  Tears warm her cheeks.  She slips off for a while, not sleeping. She’s not thinking, just breathing.  Time is unknown.  11

Eventually, she decides she will call Ben for advice (anything to lead her in the right direction).  Her quaking hands dial his number.  Her heart speeds up.  Goosebumps cover her impatient body.  He picks up.12

“Hello? What’s wrong?” he asks with a small hint of sympathy.  Tears roll down her cheeks.  She can barely speak a word.  Moments are spent listening to each other breathe.  She felt cared for at last, but she is still scared.  Ben is called to dinner.  They say their goodbyes, and reality pangs again.13

Hillary crawls into her bed clutching her blanket.  Life disappears as her head hits the pillow.  It was just another day.14

Last year, I was severely depressed.  I completely hated myself.  I hated life in general.  I remember the many times I just wanted to give up and end it.  I felt so alone.  It was a tremendous struggle to get out of bed each day and refrain from hurting myself.  I put on a mask and pretended to be happy everyday, but inside I was crying.  It has taken me a year to recover, and I doubt I will ever fully heal.  The melancholy struggles I overcame have made me the compassionate teen I am today.  I will never forget that time in my life.  I don’t think I would change anything if I could go back.  I just keep my head up and move forward.  The bad times make the good times taste so much sweeter.15