Disclaimer: I Don't Own Glee
Warning: Mentions of Self harm
Okay, so I'm going to explain the reasoning behind this story. I don't usually, but this does have a reason. The truth is, I have stages where I do go through bad thoughts and I need to write them down. This is the story that came out when I wrote down my feelings, but I wanted to share it because this is a serious matter that people go through and no person should take lightly. Yes, I go through thoughts like these every day and the only thing that gets me out of it is writing, which is why I have been writing so much.
Brittany has felt empty her entire life. She hid her emotions from everyone for so long, but what happens when the blonde hits a breaking point?
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At school, everyone sees me as this happy, bubbly blonde haired cheerleader. Yes, I have a reputation of making out with a lot of people too, however, that wasn't who I was. Who am I, you ask? Well, I have been asking myself the same question for so long that I don't even know the answer. Ever since I was five I stopped being the bubbly blonde girl and turned into this...I don't even know what to call it. I have no name for what is going on with me considering I don't know myself. I try so hard to push everything away but it always comes back even worse than before. I tried going to the doctors, but I always ended up booking an appointment to end up missing it on purpose. I go through the same cycle every month as a matter of fact. The truth is, I make out and sleep with so many people to distract myself. They never stay, though; I don't allow it. I just enjoy being able to forget, even if it's just for a little while. If I can distract myself for just half an hour that is an accomplishment in itself. I don't tend to explain myself to anyone because who would believe me? Would they just believe I was seeking attention? Just tell me to cheer up? Tell me it was all inside my head and I just had to ignore it? How I had no reason to feel the way I do? I imagine the responses on a daily basis when I think about telling someone. Obviously, I always end up ignoring my thoughts.
I have a journal I write in on a daily basis. I looked up online about some options to make yourself happy and apparently writing your feelings down helps. Bullshit. The only thing it does is make me be able to go through until the next day. It doesn't make me feel better or happier. It just keeps me going. I began writing in journals when I was nine years old. I asked my dad to get me one for Christmas, it was all I asked for, so I got one and I tried writing down my feelings. The first time I tried I struggled. I had no idea what to write but, as it stands, I learnt what to write. The journal just kept me going through school until I got home and it still does. When I was ten, I started to put a mask on when I went to school. It was all I could do to stop the teachers asking questions. My dad thought I was getting better, but truthfully, I wasn't. I was getting worse. I always wondered why the other kids got to be happy when I had to feel sad. It was unfair, but then I came to the understanding that I had to be the sad one. The one who fought the most because, if I didn't, who would? I was making my dad happy by pretending to be happy and everyone at school knew none the wiser. In my head, it was all fitting together nicely.
Throughout school, I was friends with Quinn and Santana. They had been my best friends since kindergarten and we have been inseparable since then. I'm very careful around them in the fact of making sure they never come over to my house as well as not reading through my notebooks at school. They thought I was a private person but since I was happy as can be during school hours, they didn't look too much into it. Well, Quinn didn't. Santana persisted trying to get me to open up, however, it didn't happen. They knew my parents separated and I went through a rough patch afterwards but, aside from that, they knew nothing about my life. I made certain of that. Santana made it so difficult when we began to get closer. Sleeping together became normal for us, however, I always made sure it was at her place. The only people who came in my room were my dad and the people I slept with randomly. Santana wasn't random, though. She was someone I truly liked. Someone I could actually see a future with. Well, if I didn't go before that happened.
As I grew older and older I started to look into more things to help me. I wanted to feel something. I wanted to feel...pain. I needed to feel that. When I first looked it up I was terrified. I didn't even want to think about it but, after I did it, it felt good. I felt at peace and the bad thing was, I got addicted. I craved the feel of the blade against my skin, the way the blood ran down my thighs to the bottom of the bathtub. I wanted more but I was also sensible. I knew I couldn't too much otherwise people would notice. Santana would notice. Lucky for me she wasn't curious about giving me oral, so I always made sure to pleasure her. I began being the one to control what we did and didn't do. She only saw it as a turn on, so I was lucky. She started to become the only person to keep me going every day.
Things only went from bad to worse. I kept writing in my journal but soon enough...I needed more than writing. I needed a lot more than just writing in a book when my thoughts got worse. I tried visiting my mother, but that did nothing for me. It allowed me to relax for the weekend, however, I had to wear my mask constantly. I wasn't used to that since dad let me do what I want. I knew my sister noticed since she started questioning me; asking if I was okay. It got annoying but, be that as it may, I appreciated her asking. My mother didn't notice thankfully since the last thing I wanted or needed was a lecture from her about how I was miserable and that I should move in with her. As you can probably imagine , she took it hard when I chose to stay with dad. I'm sorry, but why should I move away from everyone I knew just because she wanted to? No, I didn't want to do that. Emily was fine with it since she was only young so it didn't have that much of an impact on her life. I had friends in Lima so, naturally, I was going to stay there. Dad was happy that one of us was staying so I was glad I could make him happy at least. It made one of us.
After visiting my mother, I didn't feel any better. Frankly, I just wanted to stay in bed all day. I even did that by telling my dad I was sick but it only worked for three days before he said I had to go back. He didn't want phone calls from the school saying I was bunking off. I listened to make him feel better. Going back to school did nothing for me, though. I kept my smile on, but it was starting to become too exhausting to smile. I was starting to get so tired that I missed Glee and cheerleading practices. All I wanted was to be at home in my bed. Mentally and physically I was exhausted and I didn't know why. I never knew why. It usually happened on weekends, not weekdays, but I didn't get the weekend to lay in bed so this was why. I had to suffer during the week. It was dreadful since I had Santana and Quinn asking me what was wrong. I put it down to feeling unwell which, thankfully, they accepted. They never questioned me after that. Santana still texts me asking to hook up and since I didn't want her questioning me, I forced myself to go. I forced myself to pleasure her the best I could to tire her out. When she was tired she fell asleep straight away giving me time to sneak out. I never stayed. No matter how much I felt for this girl, staying made things worse. I did it once and the need to want her grew too strong. I felt as though I needed to confess everything. I felt like if I didn't tell her everything I was going to break. I was not going to break that barrier, so I stopped staying. Santana never said anything, so I got off the hook.
It took about three weeks before I stopped caring about the clubs I joined and stopped returning everyone's phone calls. I called this my giving up mood. I had never gotten this bad before and it scared me. I only went to the classes at school and the rest of the time I went to the auditorium to lay down. I imagined ending everything. I wanted to stop these feelings inside me, but I didn't know how. I didn't want to cry because I felt weak. I felt nothing inside me. I had become this empty shell. I knew people were talking about me, but I stopped caring. Self-harm was doing nothing for me anymore. There were scars on my legs and arms now which I still managed to hide with the right amount of make-up. Whenever Santana called, I ignored it. I hadn't been over in weeks. I didn't want. I was too broken-down. Nothing made me happy. This was me. I had searched for a long time and now I knew. This was how I was meant to end up. Feeling nothing. Feeling as though if I disappeared no one would care. My dad was working so much he didn't notice that my appetite had gone. I didn't want to exercise like I used to. I heard the school bell ring which made me sigh. I had to go back to class. Looking up at the ceiling I knew what I had to do.
Getting home that night was exhausting and I was just lucky no one was home. Dad was never home these days, which made it easier to do what I wanted to do. I walked upstairs to my room locking the door behind me. I threw my bag on the floor before walking to the bathroom to run a bath. Why was this so easy for me? Why did I feel as though this was it? This was the value of my life. Was it all leading up to this? I stripped my clothing off, turned some music on loud, turned my phone off before locking the door and getting in the bath. I sighed relaxing a little. I had time. I had all night. Washing myself wouldn't do any harm, though. I would at least be found clean. Looking at myself I started to clean my body thoroughly before starting to wash my hair. I took my time just prolonging the inevitable. Nevertheless, it didn't take long before I was reaching over for the blade. I settled back in the bath once it was in my hands moving it between my fingers. I had done this so many times. When you have an addiction all you want is more of what you're addicted to and that was how I felt. It has become almost enjoyable for me. I took a deep breath before moving the blade over my wrists, just it was deeper this time. Okay, this time, it stung a little more but that was okay. I was going to be happy soon. I was going to a place where I could smile and laugh for real instead of faking it. Slicing my other wrist open I watched the blood pour from my wrists. My eyes started to feel heavy, as did my body when more blood poured from my body into the water. It was going slowly and I felt my body sinking a little. I could feel myself going. In the distance, I could hear someone shouting my name. It was too far away to hear, though. Maybe they were waiting for me on the other side. The last thing I saw before blacking out was a pair of brown eyes.
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Feeling my eyes open was not something I expected to happen. I remember being in the bathtub alone, with the doors locked, and blood pouring from my wrists into the bath. I tried lifting my arms except they felt really heavy. I felt weak. Tired. Drained. I could come up with a number of other words but I was too exhausted to do so. I looked around trying to figure out my surroundings. There were many lights, chairs around the bed, some sort of wooden door. I think I'm in the hospital but I can't tell. I wanted to sit up but I couldn't. My run-down body couldn't do it. I looked to the side noticing one of those bags you see on the medical shows. I must be in the hospital. Looking down at my hand I saw a needle in my hand meaning I was on some sort of drip. Why was I still here? I don't understand. I had enough of this life. I wanted out of it. I wasn't happy and I wasn't enjoying it. Why should I be made to live a life I don't want? Yes, they say life is precious but how do you explain to someone who doesn't enjoy any of it to live life? You get one life but if you are too damn unhappy to want to live it, why should you be forced to be here?
I turned my head again to see Santana. What was she doing here? She shouldn't be here visiting me when I looked like this. I didn't want her seeing me weak. She deserved better. She always deserved better. I can't give her what she needs, but I always thought if we had the physical side she'd never leave. I didn't want her leaving. Everyone leaves. My mom and sister left. Dad wasn't around as much. Quinn was too busy with the Cheerios to care. Santana liked all those other boys to even think about me. What do I get? No one. Everyone is too busy for me. I'm in here because someone didn't let me go. Maybe someone cared enough to stop me, but where would that get me? I would be alive, yes, but not happy. Not living. I could have watched Santana from above and see her live the life she wanted. I could have seen her become successful. I'm probably just going to drift apart from her now. She'll see how weak I am and that will be it. Where does that leave me? Growing up and being alone. Not even Lord Tubbington could cheer me up. Trust me, I tried that.
Within the next few minutes, I saw my doctor walk in followed by my mother, sister, and father. They all looked relieved to see me awake. I heard Santana mumble from the side meaning she was waking up. I turned to look in her direction when I saw her look of worry. Is that what she had been doing? I turned to look at my family once again and, one by one, they hugged me telling me how sorry they were. How they didn't see this coming. Of course, they didn't, I made sure of it. Of course, it made me feel bad. I didn't want them feeling guilty over something I chose to do. I made that decision to try and end my life, unsuccessfully I might add, but it was no one's fault but my own. I felt the bed dip when my family were finished. I turned my head and saw Santana moving to sit beside me. She even got under the sheets, which was comforting, to say the least. She looked at me before taking my hand entwining our fingers together. I didn't understand it, but I didn't care. She began to whisper how she wishes I talked to her so she could have helped. How every time we slept together she imagined being the one doing the pleasing, but I always got there first. How, and this was a big one, she loved me. I never expected that because, for as long as I could remember, I loved her. I just never felt good enough. I always wanted a life with her, but I never thought I could have someone as beautiful as Santana. She continued to tell me how much I meant to her and she was glad I survived since she was the one who broke the doors down, finding me almost unconscious. I actually remember a pair of brown eyes before I blacked out which must have been hers.
The doctor began to tell us all how I needed to stay here to get monitored but he was going to prescribe me antidepressants. He stated that I had a hormonal imbalance in my brain which caused my mood to be lower than normal . He explained how it wasn't my fault and, with the right medication, I would be able to sort myself out and get better. It was actually a nice relief to have someone tell me what was wrong since I had imagined it for so long. I always wanted someone telling me I had something which was treatable. That why I felt as though I wasn't normal and, now, I knew it wasn't my fault. My brain was just being a bit weird but I could get it sorted out.
My whole family sat with me once the doctor went to try and get me to explain what had caused me to try and kill myself. I didn't have any words. I literally couldn't explain myself since I had no idea. Something in my head caused me to feel like it was the only way I could be happy. That was the feelings behind it. Whilst I tried to explain to everyone my emotions Santana stayed glued to my side the entire time, holding my hand, to help me get through it. I didn't know why, or how, but she helped me get through it. Just having her hold my hand made everything better and now I felt as though I could do anything. I turned my head to look at the girl beside me with a smile. I might have to deal with this my whole life, but at least I know I'll never be alone again.