Struggles

The story of a girl's journey throughout her struggles, as she tries desperately to hold onto a life only other people want her to live.

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3. A Sole Chair

Her hands shook and her head throbbed as she stared at the sole chair she had dragged to the center of her bedroom. Her ceiling fan fidgeted under the small weight of the rope. Though it had taken mere minutes to set the room up for her plans, hours had been spent sitting on her bed, contemplating. Part of her considered what she was doing to be extremely weak and pathetic, yet another part of her was genuinely confused as to why it took her so long to make a decision. This seemed like the only option in her mind.

Her eyes drifted from the rope to her forearms. The thin fabric of her long-sleeve shirt may have been enough to convince others of normality but she herself knew what lay beneath. Secrets were things she had grown very accustomed to. Though lying was said to be  a sin, was that still the case when you lied to prevent your loved ones from potentially falling apart?

The shattered shards of her psyche had long since been destroyed and crushed. The person she used to be had long since vanished from her memory and was completely beyond recovery. She had tried desperately to pick up the pieces to no avail and she had finally given up hope after being met with nothing but failure. All of the medication, all of the therapy sessions, they did nothing. Her acting skills were far better than any professional actress. Her fake smiles appeared so genuine some might think she was the happiest girl in the world. Her ruse of an enjoyable life was believed by everyone, even those that knew of her time spent in an institution. She had been so good at faking she managed to completely convince every therapist, every psychiatrist, until she was let out before regulation on account of "prominent signs of recovery". She still found herself able to smirk at that irony. It was astounding just how far from recovery she was.

It seemed her family was the most gullible, perhaps because they so wanted her to be better they didn't let themselves consider any alternatives. She exhaled shakily and buried her hands into her hair. The headache she continued to endure was agonizing. Names people spat at her in the halls buzzed throughout her mind and weren't fading in the slightest, they continued to plague her every second of every day. People's insults really got to her  - they seemed to hit her in such a way that the broke straight through whatever mental resistance she mustered up.

Her irritating inability to always wear clothing that concealed her arms and thighs also earned her another bad reputation and even more offensive titles. It also further lowered her own self-image and made her despise the markings she willingly gave herself. Although after the damage had been done, she would wonder if the temporary relief and release of negative emotions was worth the aftermath. Yet even though she would commonly have regrets afterward, she felt as if it were essential to her well-being.

Perhaps that was why she was in the position she was in then - staring at a dangling rope uncertainly, longing for the tools to relieve some pain but not having them at hand anymore. The hardest thing for her to feign was a look of utter neutrality when her mother took those tools away. Inside she had been panicking but she didn't let it show through. She needed those. Especially after another school day full of insults and put-downs.

Her eyes lingered on the rope for a straight minute without blinking. Finally, she stood from her bed and walked to the chair. Her hand felt limp as she raised it, grasping the makeshift material, frowning bitterly. The indecision was killing her. But her train of thought abruptly veered off course: to the hurtful words she heard during school, and to the one phrase that certainly influenced what she was now so close to doing: "Just go kill yourself." Surely they wanted her gone. And though a part of her also wanted to be gone, should she really allow her tormentors to feel so accomplished?

The indecision gradually became less overwhelming. Her hand slowly fell from the rope and went back to her side, before grasping it again tightly and yanking it from her fan in a sudden burst of anger. It fell to her carpet with a dull thud. It took a few short minutes to tuck the rope gently beneath her mattress and to push the chair back to its usual spot. She then walked to her bedroom door, tugging it open, and walking into the hall. Her mood shifted significantly as she slammed it behind her, her entire body seemed lighter.

Her life wasn't over yet.

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