2 views
Raindrops.
I always wonder about raindrops. Living in the clouds, gathering water, until the fall where they inevitably hit the sidewalk.
No-one blames raindrops for smashing into the sidewalk.
A raindrop gaining mass and preparing to fall from its nest of safety within the clouds, doesn’t alert authority and result in hours of therapy and a social worker calling organisations desperately in an attempt to organise a phone check-in on said raindrop over the weekend to ensure the raindrop doesn’t fall. No. It’s just a fucking raindrop. There are millions, billions, trillions of them. What’s one raindrop, really?
Now, replace that insignificant raindrop with a human, and, shit, you’ve got another statistic. A contribution to an epidemic. A reason to sound the alarms. A reason to extend a 30-minute counselling session to a two-and-a-half hour detention in which a social worker calls around like a headless chook. And as I observed this hectic scramble, I couldn't help but feel bad. Once again, I felt guilty for the effect my mental illnesses have on the mental health professionals I see.
This was meant to be an in-and-out session. Just to alert the university that I wasn't… Well, I wasn't coping well. With the whole ‘being 18 years old’ thing, I mean. And, to be totally honest, who would be?
I spent so much of my life not believing I’d make it to or past 18 years old. To suddenly be here, 18, and still fucking BREATHING steadily… It was like magic. Except, I was the only one clapping. I was the only one to see how magnificent this trick was… Everyone else in the audience acted as if reaching this age was always part of the plan.
How am I meant to feel connected with my peers when they’ve been planning their adult life since early tween-dom, and I’d been working under the assumption I wouldn’t live to see this age? I mean, fuck, never in my wildest dreams did I imagine seeing the age of 19, let alone 23.
Like, let’s just consider drivers’ licences and health insurance. In the lead up to turning 16, I was all over the medical forms for my epilepsy, just waiting for a GP signature to sign off. A year, and an EEG later, I was still licence-less and apparently experiencing seizures whenever I overheated and hyperventilated. According to national legislation, I’d have to get an EEG every year to monitor my seizures and maintain my licence, once I got it. So driving turned into something that just wasn’t going to happen. At least, not as a teenager. And I wasn’t going to live past 18, so what was the point?
And yet, at 23 years old, I’m constantly inconvenienced by reminders that life would be easier if I drove… No shit. The thing is, I never thought this in particular would be a problem. I mean, all I had to do was make it to 18, then nothing would matter.
It’s been 5 years since I was 18. I’m still playing catch-up.
Why could I have not been a raindrop? A statistic?
Em was. Em killed herself at 17. She was the only one of us to follow-through - to make 18 an impossible goal. The guilt I feel about this will never dissipate. I carry Em’s presence and life around with me like a desperate hoarder. If I don’t forget, she never ceases to exist. If I never forget about her, I’m never left with just my guilt over being the lone survivor… 23 years old and without a licence or health insurance.
If Em ever made it to 23, she would’ve been a licence and health insurance advocate. She wouldn’t let me slide into this state of compliance.
But the harsh reality is, she’s not here to pester me. She’s not here to dance or sing with me… She’s still 17. And I’m 23.
She used to be 3 days older than me.
The fact that I will forever be older than her is a noose around my neck. I will die with her name on my lips.
She’d hate that. I think.
But she won’t be around to tell me, so… I’ll carry the burden of her premature death to the grave, whenever it is dug.
Sometimes, I try to imagine the mindset of a 23-year-old without all these literal and figurative skeletons in the closet. I can never relate to them. And that fact hurts even more than any physical harm I could cause myself… I’d know. I’ve had enough experience.
How does one step forwards with such a heavy weight permanently tied to their ankle?
I’ll never truly be able to LIVE as an adult without being reminded of Em.
I envy the raindrop.
Falling to the sidewalk is part of its unholy plan.
No-one is going to guilt a raindrop into staying in the cloud.
No-one is going to argue against the raindrop’s right to fall.
To grow heavy, and fall, as have all the raindrops before it.
Instead, the raindrop is praised whilst I am reprimanded.
© O.M.A
#WritcoQuote #writco #writcoapp #shortstory #story #mentalhealth #depression #SuicidePrevention #personal #reflection
No-one blames raindrops for smashing into the sidewalk.
A raindrop gaining mass and preparing to fall from its nest of safety within the clouds, doesn’t alert authority and result in hours of therapy and a social worker calling organisations desperately in an attempt to organise a phone check-in on said raindrop over the weekend to ensure the raindrop doesn’t fall. No. It’s just a fucking raindrop. There are millions, billions, trillions of them. What’s one raindrop, really?
Now, replace that insignificant raindrop with a human, and, shit, you’ve got another statistic. A contribution to an epidemic. A reason to sound the alarms. A reason to extend a 30-minute counselling session to a two-and-a-half hour detention in which a social worker calls around like a headless chook. And as I observed this hectic scramble, I couldn't help but feel bad. Once again, I felt guilty for the effect my mental illnesses have on the mental health professionals I see.
This was meant to be an in-and-out session. Just to alert the university that I wasn't… Well, I wasn't coping well. With the whole ‘being 18 years old’ thing, I mean. And, to be totally honest, who would be?
I spent so much of my life not believing I’d make it to or past 18 years old. To suddenly be here, 18, and still fucking BREATHING steadily… It was like magic. Except, I was the only one clapping. I was the only one to see how magnificent this trick was… Everyone else in the audience acted as if reaching this age was always part of the plan.
How am I meant to feel connected with my peers when they’ve been planning their adult life since early tween-dom, and I’d been working under the assumption I wouldn’t live to see this age? I mean, fuck, never in my wildest dreams did I imagine seeing the age of 19, let alone 23.
Like, let’s just consider drivers’ licences and health insurance. In the lead up to turning 16, I was all over the medical forms for my epilepsy, just waiting for a GP signature to sign off. A year, and an EEG later, I was still licence-less and apparently experiencing seizures whenever I overheated and hyperventilated. According to national legislation, I’d have to get an EEG every year to monitor my seizures and maintain my licence, once I got it. So driving turned into something that just wasn’t going to happen. At least, not as a teenager. And I wasn’t going to live past 18, so what was the point?
And yet, at 23 years old, I’m constantly inconvenienced by reminders that life would be easier if I drove… No shit. The thing is, I never thought this in particular would be a problem. I mean, all I had to do was make it to 18, then nothing would matter.
It’s been 5 years since I was 18. I’m still playing catch-up.
Why could I have not been a raindrop? A statistic?
Em was. Em killed herself at 17. She was the only one of us to follow-through - to make 18 an impossible goal. The guilt I feel about this will never dissipate. I carry Em’s presence and life around with me like a desperate hoarder. If I don’t forget, she never ceases to exist. If I never forget about her, I’m never left with just my guilt over being the lone survivor… 23 years old and without a licence or health insurance.
If Em ever made it to 23, she would’ve been a licence and health insurance advocate. She wouldn’t let me slide into this state of compliance.
But the harsh reality is, she’s not here to pester me. She’s not here to dance or sing with me… She’s still 17. And I’m 23.
She used to be 3 days older than me.
The fact that I will forever be older than her is a noose around my neck. I will die with her name on my lips.
She’d hate that. I think.
But she won’t be around to tell me, so… I’ll carry the burden of her premature death to the grave, whenever it is dug.
Sometimes, I try to imagine the mindset of a 23-year-old without all these literal and figurative skeletons in the closet. I can never relate to them. And that fact hurts even more than any physical harm I could cause myself… I’d know. I’ve had enough experience.
How does one step forwards with such a heavy weight permanently tied to their ankle?
I’ll never truly be able to LIVE as an adult without being reminded of Em.
I envy the raindrop.
Falling to the sidewalk is part of its unholy plan.
No-one is going to guilt a raindrop into staying in the cloud.
No-one is going to argue against the raindrop’s right to fall.
To grow heavy, and fall, as have all the raindrops before it.
Instead, the raindrop is praised whilst I am reprimanded.
© O.M.A
#WritcoQuote #writco #writcoapp #shortstory #story #mentalhealth #depression #SuicidePrevention #personal #reflection
Related Stories
