Warnings: Severe depression, mentions of suicide.
She stared down at the blank parchment in front of her, watching as the patterns from the drops of ink spread out and changed shape. She's been trying to write the letter for hours, but she couldn't form her racing thoughts into sentences. She dipped her quill into one of the inkblots, dragging it out across the page creating abstract designs. Finally, she dipped her quill into the pot of ink to her left.
I think that I there might be something wrong with me.
She looks at the one sentence that she's managed to get down on the page, the messy scrawl so unlike the neat print of either of her parents, and frowns slightly at the smudges of ink on her left hand. Now that she had her first sentence down it felt easier, it was like the words were just writing themselves and she was just the vessel.
Sometimes I really don't want to do anything, and can't even bring myself to do the things that I enjoy, but other times I want to do so much at once that I don't have enough time to do everything. I come up with all these ideas of things that I could do/make/write, but ultimately I never end up doing them – or I start and never finish – because I lose interest or move on to something else.
She felt better for having something written down; it was a start, at least. It didn't make much sense and she wasn't sure her parents would believe her, but she was getting words to paper, and that's all she really wanted right now. She reloads her quill with ink and puts pen to paper.
Sometimes I sleep a lot but it takes me a long time to get to sleep and I wake up a lot in the night, when this happens I'm always really tired, but other times I stay up really late and get up early and I still have loads of energy.
She blinked as she tried to fight back tears – this was harder than she had thought. She'd never told anyone about this before; she'd only just begun to admit her feelings to herself. It was harder than she had thought it would be to write everything down accurately; she carried on writing regardless.
Sometimes I cry myself to sleep, and am constantly fighting tears throughout the day, other times everything is funny and I laugh at the most inappropriate times. I can go from something making me cry to finding the same thing hilarious and back again in a matter of minutes.
The tears were falling freely, now, leaving dirty black streaks down her face and dripping onto her drying parchment. She was not pretty when she cried; her nose was already red and running, her eyes were rimmed red and her face was crumpled in a completely unattractive way. She stifled her sobs with her right hand, and continued writing.
Sometimes I just want to be left alone, and really wish that people would stop talking to me, but other times I feel really isolated even if I know the fact that I have no friends is completely my own fault.
The tears are falling faster now – blurring her vision – but she can feel the laughter bubbling up, can feel herself shaking with the absurdity of the situation. This doesn't seem real; she can't possibly think that she would have the courage to give this to anyone least of all her parents. She ignores those feelings for the time being; she's come this far, the least she can do is finish writing the letter.
Sometime I get really offended over a really small issue that I don't realise isn't a big deal until after the fact, then I get really argumentative over it when I know that I shouldn't but I can't stop myself.
Her tears have begun to slow down, almost coming to a stop; she gives the tear stained parchment an accusing glare, as if her contradictory feelings were in anyway its fault. This was her only outlet, the only way she could begin to understand her feelings – they were hers and yet they didn't make any sense to her. She wrote another line, hoping it would help.
Sometimes I eat so much and I can't seem to get full, other times I have to force myself to eat when I really don't want to.
Looking back over the smudged words on the slightly battered parchment – wondering briefly how anyone is supposed to decipher the illegibility of her writing – she wipes away the remainder of her tears and writes the last line.
Sometimes I really want to kill myself.
Once the ink has dried she folds the piece of parchment and hides it at the bottom of her desk draw; for now, the reassurance of having it is enough.