The Memoir of Antonia Boots

The first time I tried to kill myself I almost succeeded. I came home from school that day and went straight to the medicine cabinet in the kitchen. No one else was home and I knew it was my only chance. I had decided that day that everyone would be better off without me. I didn’t want to live and I couldn’t see a reason why anyone would want me to.
I drank about three fourths of a bottle of cough syrup before I could no longer stand the taste, I followed that with somewhere between forty or fifty ibproufen, and finally I topped it all off with about forty of my favorites, melatonin. I hoped that the sleeping pills would allow me to drift off into an oblivion that I would never awake from.
If I had had the ability to keep myself from vomiting I probably would have died that night. However, my body had other ideas. It violently expelled the poisons from my body on numerous occasions that night. My parents thought that I had the flu, and I didn’t tell them otherwise. I spent the night in a cold sweat incoherent to the world around me.
Much later I was asked why I hadn’t asked for help or told someone that I had taken drugs. My answer was simple; that whole night I never stopped wanting to die. The next morning when I awoke, I was disappointed to find myself still alive. I would have tried again if my mother hadn’t been home that day.

The short days of December blurred together. Every morning I woke up, got dressed, snuck some melatonin and went to school. At school I did the bare minimum hoping to get through the day unnoticed. I ingested more melatonin throughout the day as needed to maintain the necessary numbness. I kept everything inside myself. It was like a venom more poisonous then the most poisonous snake.
At night I would cut myself. The blood would flow down my wrist giving me a release, and the ability to feel for a little while.

“I want to tell you something,” I confessed in writing before passing the usual notebook to Don during English class.
“Okay,” he began, “You can tell me anything.”
“You have to promise not to tell anyone.”
“I promise,” he agreed.
I hesitated my pen against the paper, unsure if I wanted to continue what I had started. I struggled to decide if it was too late to turn back. “I wasn’t sick the other day.”
I watched his face as he read my cryptic message. I was hoping that he would get it, and I was hoping that he wouldn’t get it. His face stiffened; he had got it. “What happened?” I had hoped that he wouldn’t make me say it.
“I took some stuff,” I responded my hand shaking as I wrote. I hoped that he wouldn’t make me say it. I silently begged him not to.
“Were you trying to kill yourself?” It was a simple direct question with a simple yes or no answer. I knew the answer, yet it was the hardest question I would ever have to answer. I stared at the notebook, my mind struggled to grasp the concept of those six simple words. Could I still lie? Could I back out of this? Could I go back to keeping it all on the inside? If I told him the truth then someone would know the messed up shit I had been doing to myself. Did I want help?
“Yes.” I passed the notebook back to him. His face fell. I watched as he stared at the ceiling the muscles in his face contracting. He was trying to make a decision. He passed the notebook back to me and got up.
“Can I go to the bathroom?” he asked the teacher. As he disappeared out of the classroom I knew that I had been betrayed. I tried to read the book in front of me, but I couldn’t concentrate. Thoughts and worries raced through my head. I wanted to get up and run away. It was like the world around me was being engulfed in lava and my body told me to run before it was too late, but all I could do was sit there and let it come.

“I’m sorry,” Don whispered to me as I passed him on the way out of the classroom. It had only been minutes after his return from the “bathroom” that I had been called to guidance. I rubbed my sweaty palms against the fabric of my jeans as I walked down the deserted corridor. I wondered what the guidance counselor would say. Would she call my mom?
“Antonia, come in,” the crinkle haired guidance counselor said the moment I stepped into the department. She had been waiting for me. I knew that couldn’t be good. I followed her into her office. The small room was cramped with furniture against every wall. There was a small blue sofa, a chunky wooden computer desk, and several bookcases.
“Have a seat,” she said with a smile gesturing to the blue sofa. I plopped down feeling it was more of an order than a suggestion. I stared at my hands, as she pulled over her swivel chair and sat down. “Antonia, do you know why I called you down here?”
I decided to play dumb hoping that Don hadn’t ratted me out, “no.”
“I talked to a friend of yours……”
“Yeah, Don. I know.” I interrupted frustrated by her sugary sweet tone and wishing that she would just get to the point.
“He’s very concerned about you. Do you know why?”
“No.”
“Antonia, he told me that you told him that you tried to kill yourself. Is that true?”
I thought for a moment. What would happen if I just lied? I was ashamed and embarrassed. I didn’t want anyone else to know, but at the same time I sensed it was too late. “Yes, “I whispered.
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” I responded angrily.
“Do you think you’re depressed?” she continued probing.
“No,” I responded unsure of what that really meant.
“Are you sad?”
“No,” I responded honestly not sure of what emotions I felt.
“Don also said that you have been cutting. Is that true?” the women asked. I hesitated to answer. She was getting on my nerves. “Can I see your wrists?”
I pulled up my shirtsleeves and revealed the scars that ran horizontally across my wrists.
“How long have you been doing this?”
“A couple of months,” I shrugged.
“I have to call your mother now,” the women began, “Please wait outside.”