South Park © Matt & Trey.

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Tweek is probably very OOC, but try to look past that. I find it incredibly difficult to get into his head. I have officially decided that I am not allowed to write in his perspective ever again.

Tweek's POV

Living feels raw. It feels raw, but numb… Does that make any sense? Probably not.

"Be safe, honey," my mother would say every time I left the house.

I never was. I was constantly getting into trouble no matter how hard I tried to avoid it.

Kenny always tells me that it's fine to feel like this. As long as I'm still feeling, that's the important thing. The doctors think differently. They think that it's a "bad sign". I think doctors are like English teachers, always looking for things that aren't there. Always over-analyzing.

I find myself turning toward the door. I'm so used to finding Kenny standing there, but not today.

"Hey, Kenny," I say each time, but only after he says something first.

Kenny visits me the most. Craig hardly ever comes and when he does, he just stands there. We never speak. We haven't spoken in a long time. Sometimes he comes on his own, but sometimes Kenny calls him.

Things have been somewhat tense between Craig and I ever since he found me last year. I don't think he forgave me.

But he saved me, and I never thanked him for it. I think that's mostly because I'm still debating on whether or not I wanted to be saved.

"Do you want me to call Craig over?" Kenny always asks, tilting his head to the side.

Yes, I would often think, Please.

Yet I'd always say, "No."

"Are you sure?" he'll put his hands on my shoulders and forces me to look at him. Kenny has this weird talent where he claims to know things that a person can't possibly know.

I'll never say anything. I'll just watch Kenny pick his phone out of his pocket because he always knows.

Of course, Craig always comes. When he arrives, he always hovers in the doorway. He stares at me for a substantial amount of seconds, and I stare back.

Kenny will takes a seat in the corner of the room, probably watching the mild connection between us.

I don't know if it helps. I guess it makes it easier, knowing Craig doesn't completely hate me if he's still willing to come to me when he's called.

Each time he's here, I want to tell him I'm sorry for what I said and what I did, but I can never find it in me to allow the words to leave my mouth.

First mistake was on a Wednesday.

My parents found me barely conscious and bloody. I remember when they came home I was lying on the cold bathroom tiles, holding my bleeding wrist. I had spent most of the night sobbing in the bathroom, contemplating what the hell I was supposed to do. I felt alone because certain things are too difficult to talk about.

I thought I'd be able to pull myself together by the time my parents got home but I wasn't. My Mother was speaking to my father. Her replies were short, as if she wasn't really listening to what he was saying. I know that she probably wasn't. She hates leaving me alone for too long, especially after I got sick.

The voices and footsteps grew closer and I tried to collect myself but I couldn't lift a damn muscle. I was scared of being found out. I was scared what they would say to me.

Mom cried when she seen me and shied away from the state I was in. Dad said my name in this despairing tone. It made me feel even worse than I already felt, and that is saying a lot. I couldn't even answer.

Dad only sighed. I think I was crying, but I can't even recall for sure. I think he was crying too.

It seems like so long ago that happened.

My father tightly bandaged my wrists and carried me back into my room. The next day, they took me to a hospital.

I made a scene in the driveway. I screamed and sobbed and told my parents I didn't want to go, even though I saw it coming. I crumbled to the ground and my dad just picked me up again like I was a child and put me in the car. I cried for the entire ride and they didn't once tell me to stop.

My second mistake was the very next day when I told the doctors no.

I don't know how, but apparently news made it to all the guys at school. Everyone was making up their own stories and they were all stupid and wrong. Out of spite I kept my mouth shut.

The only person I told was Kenny, because Kenny listens. Kenny doesn't tell people's secrets. He just listens.

"They –nng–!" I shook, "They told me I needed to rest, but I said no."

"Who said?"

"Doctors…" I explained, "They always tell me I need to rest."

"Rest?"

I nodded, "In a hospital, but I don't want to go to a hospital!"

So I didn't go back for a long time.

I feel myself twitch and shudder, chills running through me.

Therapists expect full access to your mind. They want you to open up and say, "Welcome to my mind, it's a disgusting place. Feel free to poke around until it's time to psychoanalyse."

So I come here, not necessarily by choice. The doctor asks me questions and I do my best to answer them until it gets too difficult. It took me many months to finally start to open up to him. I still can't talk about certain things, but he looked happy when I finally opened my mouth.

My first few trips to visit the resident therapist were less than successful. "Why am I here?" I had asked. I was hopped up on drugs to calm me down, but they just made me feel even worse.

"Tweek," he had stated, "To say you don't do well under stress is an understatement. You have an extreme case of anxiety, suffering from panic attacks and severe paranoia. You try to avoid situations by coming up with highly unrealistic possible situations… Your happy place can only do so much good."

He had continued to come up with quite a list, including my most recent suicide attempt. However, many of the things on this list were problems I wasn't even aware I had.

My parents are the type of people who like to pretend everything is perfect, including me. They had denied that there was anything really wrong with me for a long time. I suppose I did the same.

"If you could, would you want to find out the exact day of your death?" I ask the therapist.

"Hmm, I don't think I would."

"Why?"

"Because as that time slowly started approaching it's all I would be able to think about. I could be dead next week and I think if I knew that I would end up wasting my time worrying over it."

"Oh," I shudder. "That makes sense."

"Would you want to know your death date?"

"I-no… I don't know. I just want this feeling to stop. I feel sick all the time."

He nods solemnly and writes something down on his clipboard.

My hand travels over my gut and claws at the material of my shirt. My stomach feels all knotted.

After jotting down a few more notes, the doctor looks up at me and says, "If I told you I had a magic pill that would kill you quickly and painlessly, would you want it?"

"No," I say, without hesitance and with an amount of confidence that surprises even me. "When I think about it... When I really think about it, I don't really want to die. There's still things I want to do, things I want to see, people I need to talk to… But sometimes," I point to my head, "The stuff up here becomes too much and well, it becomes a promising possibility."

"It?" he asks.

"Dying."

Sometimes I will think things like, "I hate myself and want to die," but to be honest that is probably a lie. I don't hate myself and I definitely don't want to die. Although I'm not always happy – I doubt anybody is – I certainly don't want to die. However, when the inevitable day does arrive, I want to have bettered myself by then. I don't want to die as I am now.

"Have you tried to hurt yourself at all in the past few days?"

I shake my head, placing my clammy palms on my thighs.

On most days, my sessions go the same. I want to say that I'm making progress, but I'm not so sure.

"You're doing much better," the doctor smiles, "That's enough for today, you should go get ready for lunch."

Third mistake was on a Sunday.

Almost exactly one year ago from today.

I remember… I was sitting in between the doorway of the bathroom, where the white tiled floor met the carpet. The paint on the wall was beginning to peel and the light seemed dim.

I had reminded myself it was a good idea. It was a good idea.

So I picked up the drugs that my doctor prescribed me and took them all.

"Fuck, no!" I heard the sudden cry and I forced myself to look up.

Craig was standing there and Jesus Christ; I will never forget the look he had on his face as long as I live. I might have even laughed at the fact that he showed an expression other than disinterest if the circumstances were different.

For a long time I didn't know how he found me, but curiosity had overcame me and I finally asked Kenny. Apparently Craig had been texting me nonstop and grew worried. I guess he had reason to be.

He fell onto the floor beside me, whispering, "Oh, shit, what have you done?"

"Stop," I tried to tell him but the words probably come out sounding like a jumbled mess. I already felt tired.

"Stay awake, Tweek," he said. He then sat me up and stuck his rough fingers down my throat, forcing me to puke up the drugs.

I had failed miserably.

I felt so stupid.

When my vomiting was reduced to dry coughing, Craig slumped against the wall and rubbed his hand down his face. He looked like he could've started crying right there and at the time I didn't care, but looking back on it I hate that I was the one to reduce him to that.

"Why would you do that?" he asked in a frighteningly calm voice.

I was angry. Ashamed. I didn't know what I was supposed to say or do, so I hit him and I told him I hated him. He didn't hesitate to hit me back. Well, I guess I deserved it.

So that was my third and last mistake.

The nurses are always telling me to find my happy place. When I start to feel anxious, or when I feel a panic attack coming they remind me to find my medium.

I'm in a field.

Happy.

It's bright.

Happy.

It's green.

Happy.

I'm in a field…

Happy, happy, happy.

They teach us all kinds of stupid things in group therapy. I don't know if any of it helps.

"Treat your body well. Don't abuse it."

"Take off your clothing and stare at yourself naked in a mirror. Learn to love what you see."

"If you feel anxious, take a deep breath and calm down, find your center. The place you are most comfortable and at peace."

I think everyone needs a break every so often. Maybe it's good to have days where you just laze around. Clear your head. Eat whatever the hell you want and don't worry about having to throw up afterward. I want to be able to have days like that. It would be nice to be able to enjoy those days with the people I care about.

But until then...

I groan, pulling on my hair and gritting my teeth.

"Find your center, Tweek, your center."

Stop… Stop…

I ball my fists and pound them into my head.

"Don't hit yourself, Tweek."

I sigh, placing my palms flat on the table and staring at the dinner tray in front of me.

"Eat your food, Tweek."

"Tweek."

"Tweek."

"Tweek."

I hate the way they always say my name, as if we're friends. All the demands make me want to scream, but nonetheless I find myself picking up the spoon and sipping shitty soup while the nurses make their rounds.

I'd like to think that someday I'll be happy enough not to need to find my center anymore. I'll be content just to live my own life and not have to imagine that I'm somewhere else.

Each life means something.

Everyone has purpose, even the people who think they don't.

Life isn't supposed to be easy, it isn't supposed to be fair. Life is ugly, and scary, but it can also be beautiful and there can be happiness.

You can't expect answers to come to you if you won't ask questions. You can't expect good things to just happen; you have to make them happen.

That's what Kenny taught me. I'd like to believe it's true.

Someday I'd like to get out of here and experience some of the beauty and happiness for myself.

I also hope that Kenny finds happiness, and realizes that he, too, is a real person.