Instructions: Write a personal statement, using pathos and other literary devices, to follow your idea or question. Be honest and straightforward, and write to entertain.

***TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDAL IDEATION***

My Illness and Me

Six stops away, I reassured myself. Only six stops to go and it will all be over. My fingers tapped uncontrollably against the subway pole, and my feet matched pace against the floor. A few people started to glare at me. I couldn’t help it, though, between my nerves and the anticipation of finally doing what I had been planning for so long. It will all be over soon, I kept reminding myself. Six more stops to the Brooklyn Bridge and it will all be over soon. 

It was kind of a bittersweet feeling. Or maybe it was relief. I didn’t want to die, not exactly. It was scary to think about what would come afterward and the question what if my soul gets stuck in nothingness for the rest of eternity and how will I literally not go insane from boredom? played through my head at least fifteen times a day. I worried about how my death would affect my mom, especially since we just lost my dad only a few months prior and she really didn’t handle it well…I wondered if my brother would cry at my funeral and how long it would take him to recover from losing not one, but two family members in less than a year. Sometimes, those thoughts scared me out of it a little; it was mostly the guilt. But I knew I needed to die. I had to. Because- because I watched my dad die as he begged me to help him in his last breaths but there was nothing I could do to save him, and I just need to stop this constant feeling inside of me and-

“And what feeling is that?”, I remember one doctor asking me. 

The feeling of…nothingness, I slowly explained; and I feel like everything is my fault.

I started to hear the clicking sound again, the same one that I heard every single day on the subway. Click, click. Click, click. 

Click. 

Click, click, click, click.

CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK. The abrasive sound of a hole puncher snapping grew louder, like it was getting closer to me by the second- except it wasn’t even there at all. It’s not real, Emily. IT’S NOT REAL, I reminded myself. That clicking is from the Metro North train, the hole puncher, remember, Emily? This is the 5 train. The SUBWAY.There is no clicking, Emily. THERE IS NO CLICK- click, click. Click, click, CLICK, CLICK CLICK. Click.

I blasted music through my headphones, loud enough to make my head pound, but I could still hear the clicking. It was no surprise, though- it was the same thing I heard every single day, always on the subway. No one else heard it, but I couldn’t stop hearing it. 

Click. 

Click, click, click.

CLICK.

As the train doors began to open, I could hear a familiar voice overhead, “This is Times Square. Transfers to the 1, 2, 3…” Click.

I rushed off the train, messily pushing through a few people in the process. It can wait til tomorrow, I decided. I just can’t hear any more of that fucking clicking.

*******

I woke up the next morning and got dressed like I would any other day. Except it wasn’t like any other day- it was my last day alive. That bittersweet feeling washed over me again, just as it had on the train the day before. I thought about what might come after death, praying it wasn’t some terribly long and boring void. I thought about my sleeping family, how they had no idea that today would likely change their lives forever. Just like the day I watched my dad die changed my life forever, and all I could feel because of it was this constant numbness… 

On the way to my front door, I caught a glimpse of my mom, who was sleeping on the couch off to the side. I think I wanted to see her one last time, maybe to say goodbye; to this day, I’m not exactly sure what changed inside of me, but I walked up to where she was laying. My mom was always the lightest sleeper, and the slightest noise or touch would always jolt her awake- and it did today, too. We surprised each other. I think there’s something about moms where they can sense when their kid isn’t alright- a mother’s instinct or whatever you want to call it. I don’t know. But she took one quick look at me and asked, “What’s wrong?” I was taken aback- I think this was the first time someone actually asked me that question since my dad’s funeral. The question I waited so long for someone to ask me, and now, I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to run, but suddenly my feet weighed a thousand pounds each and I couldn’t lift them.

“Mom…”

“Yes, baby?” she asked me, “Are you okay?”

“Mom, I need you to take me to the hospital right now or… or I’m going to kill myself.”

*******

I don’t really remember much about the day my dad died. I don’t remember much about the months, or even years after that solemn day, either. My psychiatrist, Dr. O, says that’s normal for people like me. People with PTSD often repress memories of their trauma as a way of helping them cope with their painful and overwhelming emotions, he often reminds me, kind of like a Wikipedia article. Except he would insist on calling it by its full name- “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder”– rather than plain-old PTSD. Dr. O always insists on saying it fully, as if I’m somehow ever going to forget the name of this sickness that lives inside of me. 

Nowadays, it doesn’t bother me to talk about the journey that I went through after my dad died. In fact, I like to talk about it; I know that my openness has helped a lot of people from going down the same path that I once went down, and I’m proud of that. Plus, I’ve learned to be grateful; not for what happened, obviously, but for everything that I have learned about myself since, as well as all of the things that I have been able to accomplish. Most days, I remind myself just how grateful I am to be alive, because there were too many times that I came so close to ending it all.

It hasn’t always been like that, though. I hid my illness for so long- before going to a psychiatrist for a diagnosis, before waking my mom up to ask for help, even before I waited to get off at that stop for the Brooklyn Bridge. I didn’t tell a soul what was going on, out of fear. As badly as I wanted to, I couldn’t imagine going up to someone and telling them hi, yes, please help me, I want to die. It’s all I think about from the minute I wake up in the morning to the last second before I fall asleep at night. I told a few friends and family members once, how I was feeling- it was a cry for help, really, to the people that I loved and trusted. I thought they would understand, but they all just looked at me like I was crazy, and never treated me the same way again. So, for the years following, I took my medications and visited my therapist regularly, but I didn’t share a word with anyone outside of my tiny circle. I pretended that I was completely normal.

In the last year or so, I’ve been lucky enough to realize that being normal is actually terrible. It’s not even a real thing! No one is normal, no matter how normal they try to seem, because we all have our problems; whether it’s a dead parent and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or something entirely different. Unashamedly admitting to myself and others that yes, I have a mental illness, has changed my life drastically. It has taught me gratitude, strength, and things about myself that I never knew. I have been able to go back to school, leave an abusive relationship, and finally be able to wake up in the morning and actually be excited for the day ahead. Although it has been a tough journey, one that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, it has taught me how to truly live. We can’t always change or control what happens to us, but we do have the power to control how we let it define us. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some fear get in my way again.