Hello, my name is Alex Jameson. I am 19 and entering my freshman year of college. What you are about to read is the story of my senior year of highschool and how it was both the best and worst time of my life. It may be a little hard to believe or process but it's all true. Please understand.
-Alex Jameson
As I stepped into my house my parents greeted me.
"Hey kid", my dad asked, without looking up from his book, "How was your session today?"
I shrugged and muttered something between alright and ok before slipping upstairs, and to my room.
It was a plain room. Grey carpet bordered by grey walls, and long blackout curtains covered my windows. My blankets and pillows were black, except one. Smack in the middle of the bed a round, blue pillow stuck out like a sore thumb. I had promised my mom I would try to expand my color pallette.
Next to the bed, a nightstand with my alarm clock. On my desk, next to my lamp, sat my laptop and right next to it a white basket of medication. I honestly had so much you'd think I own a pharmacy. Most of them were just antidepressants. None of them worked of course, but I pretended for my family.
I sat at my desk and pulled out my journal. I was supposed to be using it to journal my feelings. My therapist said it would help but all I could ever do was doodle.
You see I suffer from quite a few mental health issues. Anxiety, depression, PTSD, OCD, and disassociation, to name a few. Last year, August 12th, 2014 was my 13th attempt on my life. I had just lost my only friend, Jake, because his step father, in a drunken stupor had accidentally shot him. My family tries to not bring him up.
Some days are better than others. Today for example, Dr. Kindler and I talked about my plans for tomorrow. Oh, I almost forgot, tomorrow is my first day of my highschool senior year. To be honest, I don't have high hopes. I tend to always blend into the background and not talk to anybody. Dr. Kindler said that my homework is to try to make one friend in my first week. Easier said than done but Dr. Kindler is very nice and always keeps her word, so I'll try.
As I flipped open the journal, I heard footsteps approaching, my mother. She had a very graceful, almost swan-like walk where her feet would glide across the carpet in a way that only a dancer's could. Unlike my father whose feet sounded like a war march or my brother who sounded like a garage metal band, my mother's footsteps brought me a small bit of comfort. A soft rap on the door and it was gently pushed open as my mom poked her head in.
"Sweetie, how was it today?"
"F..fine", I stammered. My pencil tapping was so loud that it could've drowned out a rock concert. I hated when they asked these questions.
"Well, I made your favorite", she said softly, pretending not to notice the pencil, "Come eat and we can talk all about your first day tomorrow."
She left the door open a crack as she walked away, not waiting for a response. I hated leaving my room but if there was one thing I would leave for it's my mom's cooking. Old Italian recipes passed down from my great grandmother, that would make your stomach do tricks. The savory smell of bolognese wafted up the stairs and into my room.
I made my way downstairs and into the dining room where my father and brother were already seated.
"Hey champ, nice of you to join us", my father chuckled.
I pulled out my chair and sat down as my mom pulled my plate with pasta and extra sauce. She served herself, sat down, and then bowed her head, signaling that it was time to pray.
As Catholics we were supposed to have a long list of prayers but, for my sake, my mother only did the "Our Father" and a blessing. It wasn't that I hated praying or God, in fact I loved church. It's just my father or brother wouldn't be able to go very long without either poking at me or getting too loud for me to handle.
My father never meant any harm. He had this belief that all problems were just in your head, and all you had to do to solve them was act like they didn't exist. Unfortunately he forgot to factor in that my problem is my head. My brother on the other hand loved being a pest by bringing attention to my social life, or lack there of. He, on the other hand, played football and was very active at school.
I quickly ate and finished just in time to avoid my father asking my brother about summer practice, then I headed to the bathroom. I hated to undress or change in front of the mirror because I hated to look at myself. All bones with a thin layer of skin wrapped around them. Scars from burns and cuts numbered so high that I couldn't tell you which were on accident and which were self-inflicted.
I quickly washed and headed to bed. As I sat down I reached under my bed to pull out my only prized possession. My cassette player. I reached into my box of audio books and pulled out a random one, then popped it in. Pressing play, I got comfortable under my blanket as the narrator began to read "Old Yeller". I fell asleep praying for a quick and painless day tomorrow.