I would always tell her how grateful she should be for having another day to spend it with her family, friends.
How she’s lucky to still have a comfortable home that would shelter her from the cold and cruel outdoors.
How she gets what she wants with just one ask.
But she’d choose to dwell on other things;
On how she is unworthy of everything she has
Or how she’s not capable of doing what others can
And how everything went wrong.. still go wrong
She’d wake up every 11 in the morning just to sleep for a few hours more
She’d stare at the food that she was left with, and decide to give it to her dogs
I’m not hungry. That’s what she always tells me.
Some days, I believe her. Others, she tries to convince me it’s the truth.
She barely does anything. She doesn’t even read anymore and my God, she loves reading books – sci fi, romance, suspense, anything.
She sleeps the whole afternoon just to wake up a few minutes before her parents gets home.
They’d ask her if she ate lunch and she’d say Yes. Liar. We both know you didn’t.
I don’t when it was but I knew once, she tried to tell them the truth.
Why she refuse to eat. But then the light faded away from her eyes cause she thought about the scenario.
Here she is again, folks! Overthinking.
Them: You always do that to yourself. Do you want to get sick?
No, mom. I’m already sick.
You see.. the problem is. Some people only think about the possibilities involving your physical health. Or how much food you’re wasting.
Or how irritating it is that you’re acting like that.
Never mind what’s up in there in your head.
They’ll just think you’re on your period.
Or that you’re emotional.
Some days she is happy, genuinely.
You’ll see the rush of excitement and how she’s truly living.
Give it a week or month. Three months, tops. And there she goes again.
Crying her heart out and asking if someone recognized the slight change in her mood, in her ability to talk.
There she goes again, writing. Writing. Writing.
Just write it all out. It worked the last time. It will work again.
Then you’ll get over this. Like always.
You’re going to read another book or another story in your phone.
You’re going to talk to your friends and not mention about this.
How you broke down a couple of minutes ago.
Because what will you say to them, right?
You broke down because of a book? About a girl who committed suicide cause she gave up on life?
Because you – yourself – sometimes think that way?
That sometimes you just want to fade away?
That it won’t be as dramatic as Hannah Baker’s death but it will be as painful?
So write. Open that laptop and write.
Write till there are no more words.
Write till you think that you’re just getting emotional. Again.
Blame the book because it opened up feelings.
It opened up buried memories.
Of you and your childhood and him and you and her and her friends and everyone else.
Write in roleplay – where they don’t know the real you and what you’re going through. How they think it’s just you making stories but the truth is, every story and poem you wrote was a reflection on how you really feel
Write in your blog of your real life friends to someday see – where they won’t get to see your other writings because it is tucked away in another place. Because then they’ll know the things you don’t tell them when you meet them for coffee and bonding.
Till there’s nothing left but those words.
And she wrote. Day. Night.
On her laptop, on her phone.
On her notebook, on her planner.
She wrote it on her skin and in corners.
Then she gets ready for bed and thinks about what she wrote.
And how she wants someone to find all of her writings, no matter how theatrical and ridiculous it was – and tells her, I heard you.
Pick yourself up cause you’re not giving up tonight, I said.
And I swear, as she closed her eyes I knew she wanted to fight too.
