Today, the March wind bites, quick and angry, but alive, vibrantly alive.
The wind blew with a similar fury on February 15th, the day after
Valentine's. Me, however, I couldn't understand that wind as burning with
life and passion. Rather, that wind to me symbolised the fury of an uncaring
world against a bastard child of mankind---myself.
For the literalists, I have legitimate parents. But I am in every way a
bastard daughter to a world with no tolerance for difference, for
non-conformity. This world has no use for my intelligence, my feminism, my
anger, me. And thus, I decided I had no use for it.
The strange, cold darkness of three am found my pale face illuminated---a
ghastly, mocking portrait of myself---by the harsh fluorescent of a computer
screen. IMing my friend Chris, I counted out pills.
"One ibuprofen, two ibuprofen...Fourteen ibuprofen, fifteen ibuprofen..." I
typed with a growing shake to my hands.
Suddenly, the phone rang shrilly, inspiring a scream from my throat.
Grabbing the receiver with a trembling hand, I said "hello" in a thin,
tremulous voice, quavering with fear---one certainly not my own.
"Dear?" Chris asked concernedly. "This is me, I've called Gabe, and you're
going to the hospital. Now."
My morning in hell, though past, still haunts me endlessly. Today, a March
day of brilliant blue skies, finds me still alive, 17 years old and with a
lifetime still before me. But it also finds me with the uphill battle faced
by any depressed child. My therapist can merely nod sympathetically and send
me to random psychiatrists for evaluation. The bloody sword, I suppose, must
be wielded by me.
Anon
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