I lay in the bathtub with my eyes closed. I pressed the straight razor against my wrist. I tried to recall what I read on the website. A one inch deep cut along the radial artery should do it. The pain will be searing. I pray that I become unconscious soon. I don't want to wait till the last drop of blood is drained out, and I don't want to panic when death encounters me. I want to embrace death with a smile. I want to die like I am going to live my life thereon.
To whom will I leave a note? To whom should I bid a goodbye? My death will not make any shudders. There will be no one to shed tears or leave condolence messages. For me, death means an escape from the society who called me Schizophrenic. For me, death is an answer to my parents' concern about my drug addiction. For me, death is a remedy to my nightmares and illusions. No more counselors . . . No more complaints . . . No more of stares . . . No more bullies . . . It is going to be a normal world.
Different...that was the first mark on my personality. I didn't have any friends, and I didn't try to make any. Growing up was tough. I was the weird girl in my class. I lived in my own World; talked to people no one could see and felt things that didn't even exist. At times, I would grieve...and some other times I would be excited. Maniac . . . They called me. I hated Sunlight as it pierced my inner self and disclosed my thoughts to all around me. I feared to look in the mirror because an old woman was sitting on my shoulders giving me directions where to go. Sometimes I was a prisoner. Some other times a dancer. I wore heavy makeup to hide my face and sometimes I would run naked.
Some said I was a witch. Many a time I felt like a Princess. My teachers called me a problem child while some called me a spoiled brat. I was bullied for being a weirdo and psycho. Some were empathetic towards me and referred me to the school counselor while some found fun in hiding my stuff. I stopped going to school. My body fought with my thoughts but never won the battle. I spent weeks without talking to anyone and then I started to talk to myself. There were narrow lines of normalcy between my manic and depressive episodes when I realized that I needed help. I have been through counseling sessions, swallowed a handful of pills, been to relaxation therapies . . . But there was one thing I never got . . . A chance to be normal . . . A normal human being.
What is normalcy? Who defines it?
I have been diagnosed with bipolar mood disorder and Schizophrenia. Yes, I have a psychological issue. My mind is affected, my thoughts are clouded, my perception is vague, but I am a normal human being. I don't want to be stared at when I enter the classroom. I don't want to sit alone in the lunchroom. I don't want to be shut in the room when my parents throw a party at home. I don't expect people to step back when I mention about my illness. This is not helping me. It is just worsening my fears of being incurable.
In fact, who is the incurable? Me or you?
Here I am, cured by modern science but pushed back into the depths of paranoids by a diseased society. It is you who never accepted me as one among you. It is you who denied me the badge of normalcy. It is you who is incurable.
I opened my eyes. It is so beautiful around here. The pond is so gloomy and dark. The leaves are shielding my thoughts. Don't let the light in. Let me float like a bubble.
"Slit your wrist and we will unleash you," said the voices from deep within.
And then there were red flowers all over . . .