Printed from WriteWords - http://www.writewords.org.uk/archive/16526.asp

For Milk - (Um, nothing to do with milk, really. Please look!)

by  hannahjane

Posted: Friday, December 22, 2006
Word Count: 953
Summary: This is the first thing I've ever posted. I'm really just after a general opinion as to whether it's awful or ok. I'm playing with it as the beginning of a novel, but am not sure whether to go with something action-based instead (which has also been written). To be honest I am befuddled. Thanks for looking, I appreciate it!




Content Warning
This piece and/or subsequent comments may contain strong language.


I went out, for milk. And I thought all the chewing gum on the ground was God spitting at me.

Thatís kind of when I knew I needed help.

I know, right? It sounds ridiculous! Which is why it was so hard, you know? The bus journey to the doctorsí Ė this is months ago now Ė it took me eight weeks. I was shitting myself, trying to explain face-to-face how I felt, shifting in seat, sweaty palms and that. And Iím not a nervous person, or at least I never used to be.

I tried as best as I could, and this woman kind of sneered and laughed a little, she had clip-on earrings, and she basically made the whole thing sound like I was some lazy kid who couldnít be arsed loading the dishwasher. I had to kind of squint and make sure it wasnít just Mum, but with earrings on.

She sent me home with a prescription for some pills; some, because they donít give you loads. Anyway, I got home, and I swear, I swear to you now, there was a list of possible side effects on the label and it said Ė Iím really not kidding! - it said: suicidal feelings.

Well obviously she was fucking crazy! I opened it up, just to make sure she hadnít stuffed it with Smarties or something.

Maybe youíre thinking the same thing as she did. Typical, sulky adolescent; jeans that are either too baggy or too tight, staying up all night reading The Bell Jar, following adoringly down the Plath Path, buying stick-on pearls online; all choked up with love and misty-eyed by gas. (Oh! What it is to be mad! To drown sorrows in alcopop bottles!).

But it really isnít like that. Actually, I suppose it is a little bit, but you know, I feel shit. And I donít even have any Nirvana posters in my room or anything.

So I didnít take the pills. I probably couldnít have anyway.

Like, before the doctors, an overdose seemed perfect, except Iím crap at taking tablets and I donít think itís possible to kill yourself with Calpol. Although this one time, I was a little over-enthusiastic with a Tunes cherry lozenge and kind of choked on it and I thought Yes! This is it! but it wasnít.

I love the smell of nail varnish remover, so I did think of that for a while.

Iím too squeamish to cut, paper ones make me feint. And besides, when the time came Ė after the doctors Ė I found I liked my veins too much. And if you fail, well, you might as well have SUICIDE DOLL or ~EMO~ tattooed right there.

I thought of the easiest way the other day; the Lazy Girlís Guide to Suicide. But the shame of being found dead with a Tesco bag on my head. I donít want to be so some Shameful Death of the Week on a topical news panel quiz-show. Like when people choke on dicks or are mowed down by zimmer frames and shit.

Oh, and once I tried to jump when the Countdown clock went off, but I could never get it right. Like kids sitting in a field; daises: He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not.

And Iíve tried to make things better. Iíve tried so hard to sort myself out and that. Like, seriously, so fucking hard, you know? So fucking hard.

Iíve written diaries, on and off. Iíve spent days, feelings entwined in Smiths riffs. Then listening to Gabrielle Ė Rise, and all of this stuff, Magic, and none of it worked. Not even this tear-jerker compilation, the kind they advertise in between Corrie and sell at Asda.

And I know it sounds silly, but what else can you do? Thereís nothing else I can do.

And killing yourself because of you know, whatever, something everyday, of course itís ridiculous. Like Oh Iíll Just Top Myself Because I Missed That Programme Iíd Circled in Red Biro in the Guide, but when you feel so shit all the timeÖ

Like, I know itís supposed to be some showy performance, gurgling dying groans into the microphone, kids fumbling at the bottom of the curtains, colouring in names on gravestones.

And I know itís not like that really. Iím not stupid, I donít think that Iíll be greeted at some roped off red carpet entry with a stamp on my hand or anything. I know thereís nothing.

But Iím no good at asking for help. Even with things like the fucking Telewest box which never works and physics homework and stuff like that. Iím just shit at it all.

And the only help I find asking myself forÖ

Well, they say that God moves in mysterious ways donít they? Except I reckon itís life that moves in mysterious ways, itís just that when it gets into shit, God scrambles into the driving seat.

Which is the same with me, and I feel fucking stupid saying it, but you know, Iíve done a bit of praying to bathroom spotlights, my hands together like some God lightning conductor.

Or Iím kid-scribbling messages to Him on Paint: GOD PLEASE HELP!!!!!

But he never listens, because Iím crap and I only ever visit churches in foreign countries and Iíve used up all my prayers looking for lost keys when Iím late and computer crashes.

I realised, I swapped God in the heart for an iPod in the breast pocket and I just thought Fuck.

I just thought Fuck. Because if He doesnít love me, if heís spitting at me, then all Iíve got is the mother, and thatís when I knew I was really fucked.