"I've always somehow been around the nicest people, or the most suicidal ones. They either be the ones who'd hold me dear, or the ones who want to end their life... or maybe their misery." I started explaining to my psychiatrist. This was our second session together, and she was asking me why I felt like disappearing.
"And how do you know they were suicidal?" she asked.
I stayed quiet for a while. How did I know?
"People use blades, they use pills..." That was all I could say.
"Can you explain more?"
I closed my eyes, drifting back in thought. It was years ago. I could hear the sound of rain outside my window, soft but insistent, yet my mind kept digging for memories. Who were they? That guy who used to cry and said his tears turned red, that girl who didn't get admission into her dream university and swore she'd lock herself in her room and take pills. Who were they? I couldn't remember the names. I couldn't even remember the faces.
"Can I ask something?" I finally said.
"Yes, go ahead." Her voice was gentle as always. Sometimes it annoyed me, the way she talked to me as if I were a child.
"Can someone cry tears of blood? Like if they'd gotten the wrong medications in childhood and it somehow affected them? And those tears hurt them?" I felt absurd asking this. No one cries tears of blood. But he did.
"It's very unlikely," she replied shortly. "Who cried the tears of blood?" she asked.
"I don't remember, but there was someone. He used to say he got really bad headaches. He said when he was in his early teens, his father had taken him to some local doctor....maybe unqualified, who gave him the wrong medicine. Since that day, whenever he cried, his tears came out red, and his eyes hurt like hell." I explained. It had been years, but I still wondered if he cried like that even now.
"Hm... and do you think he was lying?"
"Yes!" My answer was quick, too quick.
"But he was suicidal," I went on. "He used blades, but never cut deep. Never the veins. It was as if he wanted sympathy only." Why was I saying that? I knew his life was terrible. I knew he had gone through so much. But still, part of me believed it, he never truly wanted to die.
"Have you used blades?" she asked in that same gentle tone, coaxing the truth out of me.
I took a deep breath. "Yes, but not to really die. Just to feel..."
"Feel what?"
"Feel pain, feel alive. I only did it twice. Never again."
"Why feel alive? What had happened to make you think you weren't alive?"
I was quiet again, asking myself the same thing. Why didn't I feel alive? My brain couldn't answer.
"Maybe because the mental pain was stronger than the physical?" she said softly.
"Yes." She was right. That was it.
"Since when are you having these thoughts of killing yourself?"
"I don't want to kill myself." My voice was sharp, honest. "I just want to disappear. I don't want to die."
"Hm. Okay. Anything else you want me to know?"
"No." I sighed, drained of words.
"Are you taking your medication properly?" she asked.
Medication. Breathing exercises. All of it again. I hated it.
"Yes," I lied.
"And you're practicing those exercises?"
I sighed again, lying once more. "Yes."
I glanced at my phone screen. The call had lasted fifty-four minutes. My head was spinning, growing heavier.
"In our next session—" she was still speaking, but her voice faded. The dizziness was too much. I was losing consciousness.
I heard the sound of drops, steady and slow. The sound was melancholic, almost poetic. Drops of blood, falling from my wrist. My phone slipped from my hand onto the bed. I finally threw the blade aside. Someone was knocking at the door, hard, loud, urgent.
And then, someone shook me violently.
"Wake up!" It was my sister's voice.
I opened my eyes. Everyone was getting ready for a picnic.
So it was just a dream.
But then, who was that boy who cried red tears? I never knew anyone like that.
I looked at my wrist. Perfectly fine. No cuts. No blood.
Was it a dream? I couldn't remember anymore.