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The party was in full swing downstairs, but Liz wasn’t in the mood to join in the celebrations, so I remained by her side the whole night. There would be a million more parties, but there would only ever be one Lizzie Young.
All I could do was stay. So that’s what I did. Because I knew deep down inside that I would sit with Lizzie Young for the rest of my life if it kept the sadness out of her eyes. If it kept her safe.
“And a world without Lizzie Young would be a travesty.”
My weapon of choice became the blade, and my flesh became the battlefield, where I waged an internal war on the parts of me that couldn’t be healed.
I was trying to survive and had finally found a way to make it through the days without wanting to die.
I laughed. “You really are thick as shit, aren’t you?”
“I’m going to keep you safe,” I promised, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Always.” “No matter what?” “Yeah, Liz,” I confirmed, not truly comprehending the vow I had taken upon my young shoulders. “No matter what.”
I wanted to take off all my clothes and feel the sun on my skin. I wanted to peel the skin from my bones, strip by strip, until everyone could see how impure I was on the inside. I wanted to throw myself out of my bedroom window and impale my torso on the window bars below. I craved to know how it would feel to sever my carotid artery and watch the blood drain from my body. Would there be enough to drown the monster?
This is the most powerful, realistic take I've ever read in regards to mental health through the POV of a fictional character.
“You consider that humorous?” I narrowed my eyes in disgust. “If wit was shit, you’d be constipated.”
Liz stood her ground and glared up at him in defiance. “I would rather shit in my hand and clap.”
“I don’t feel so strong lately, Hugh,” I admitted, sidling closer to him. “I feel tired and…” “And what, Liz?” “Scared,” I whispered, burying my face in his chest. “I’m always so scared.” “Of what?” I clenched my eyes shut and whispered, “Me.”
“You’re going to live a great life, Liz. A little complicated, sure, and maybe challenging at times, but it’ll be a fucking great one.” “I am?” “Yeah, Liz, you are.” “How can you know that?” “Because I’m going to make sure of it.”
MY HEART. AHHHHHHH!
“Why can’t you just try!” “Because I’m afraid.” “Of what?” “Of you, Liz. I’m afraid of you!” “So you’re afraid to fuck me because you’re afraid of me?” “No, Liz, I’m afraid to fuck you because I don’t know which version of you I’d be fucking!”
Again, a painfully accurate depiction of someone in the depths of a mental health episode / bipolar disorder.
My parents couldn’t seem to stand me, and my father often took my mother away from the house for long stretches of time every evening. I knew why. He was giving me privacy to kill myself. He wanted me dead. They all did.
“You don’t want me!” I hissed, breaking free of his hold and booking it toward the road. “He does!” “He doesn’t deserve you,” Hugh roared, snatching me back up. “And you don’t deserve this demon fucking disease!”
The clearer my mind became, the worse my guilt grew. Because with clarity came consequences and I was drowning in mine.
He was suffering the consequences of loving a person like me.
This hit me right in the chest.
“You know me, Claire.” Swallowing down my emotions, I smiled brightly. “I’m always okay.”
“And I want you to move on from me,” she said, choking on the words like they physically pained her. “I don’t want you to feel guilty about it or think you’re doing something wrong, because you aren’t. Because you are too amazing of a person to spend your life stuck on a fuckup like me.”
