Normality

A Story by Emma Cathryn

I didn't want to. You know, kill myself. Or maybe I did. I was very conflicted with the whole topic, idea, thing in general. Most of the time, all I felt like was blah. Maybe you caught that I said 'most of the time,' meaning not every second of the day. Maybe you didn't. If you did, what about the other sliver of my life? If you didn't, you're curious now, correct? But if you aren't curious, it's probably people like you who make me want to kill myself in the first place.

Am I being stereo typical? Not in the slightest. Well, maybe a little. Think about it - are you so insensitive, so unable to feel that you can't tell when someone's upset? That a small 'are you okay?' is physically impossible for you to say? I can honestly say I pity you, being incapable to emotionally feel anything. This means you're numb, right? I suppose I don't pity you after all, considering 'numb' is my only answer for "the How question."

The How question is my termonology for "How are you?" and "How's it going?" or "How are you doing today?" This doesn't really apply to just one person. Technically, it applies to the one asking the question, which truly could be anyone your close to. Or someone you aren't the closest with, like your science lab partner or your music teacher. Anyone.

No matter who they are, or how emotionally close I am to them, my answer is always the same. "Numb." Maybe I'll spice it up a bit, like, "Oh, I'm feeling a tad numb today, thanks." to show I'm not this plain, grey, stereo typical robot. To my parents or other family, it was "fine." Until we discovered I was cylinically diagnosed with depression, that is. Still, once in a while I'd say "Good." when they asked me how my day was, to appear I was getting better while on my zoloft and prozac. One pill of each twice a day - breakfast and dinner.

Even with two different brands of anti-depressant pills, I still feel, I don't know...depressed? Half of me believes that if I do keep taking my pills, I'll get better eventually. Then, the other half of me inside is screaming, "It's all bullshit!" I'm torn, you see. I truly want to get better - Is that how you word it? - for the sake of my parents, my family, my friends. I think that's why they're not working - the pills. I want to be better for everyone else, except me.

If a man was in your house, ready to kill you with a loaded gun, would you beg for your life? Normal people would say yes in a heartbeat. Well, I guess I'm not normal. On an average occasion, I'd plan how easy it would be to step out in a busy street at just the right moment, and make it all look like an accident. I don't think I'd ever actually go through with it though, no matter how much I wanted to. Once again, my family and friends pop into my head, along with all the crazy affects it could have on them.

What if my suicide causes them to get depressed? Start to self harm? Start to be an anti-social robot? Like me, of course. I don't even dare to think about the effect it could have on my cousins. Miles and Kaylee are two of the most important people in my life. Kaylee's only three years old, turning four early next January. This one time when I felt really low, I stayed quiet for hours on end and when she came over later that day, her smile and laugh became one valuable reason for me to live. Miles is closer to my age than Kaylee. He's fourteen, completing his first year of high school at West Side Academy. Being a year and a half older than him, I was able to help him whenever he needed it.

West Side Academy is your ultimate private school. Tuition alone each year is over one thousand dollars. This is, of course, not including textbooks, uniforms, extra pairs of uniforms, school jackets, appropriate shoes, physical education uniforms, physical education sweats and sweat jackets, spiral notebooks, back up spiral notebooks and so much more. Take anything you're required to have on a regular school day and times it by two. Now, take the prices after doubling it and you see how West Side Academy is the school to go to.

Our school is known for three main points: the people, the classes and the campus. Obviously, parents send their kids here for the excellent academic programs . . . and the ability to say "My son/daughter goes to West Side Academy!" at free will, full of pride, as well.

Whether it's the students attending or the staff supervising, they're all snotty wankers. I guess this would apply to me as well, but I'm pretty sure my cylinical depression balances it out. People at W.S.A are greedy pigs, always wanting something from one or another - extra credit, harder assignments, more homework, extra credit, extra credit. While I try to get away from all these goddamn people as fast as I can.

Classes here are by far the most challenging, mind-boggling, time wasting thing you have to complete in your life. I'm not saing the work doesn't prepare you for whatever you want to go for in the future, because it does. What I'm saying is that teachers pile on all this bullshit day after day, and week after week. Project, assignment, assignment, report, report, report, project, assignment, project, project.

The campus is absolutely unbelievable. The little shops, the small fast food places, the pool, the hot tubs, the big oak trees, the picnic areas, even the grass is greener than the fake ones they sell at hardware stores. Each year, the buildings look nicer than the year before, as if they rebuild the classrooms during summer vacation.

You walk into the school's office. The first thing you notice is the clean carpets, pure white walls and spotless glass tables. Continue through there and stroll into the quad. It's a big, round shape that stretches out for at least a mile, maybe more. There's a huge statue of Anwar Willis, the founder of the school, right when you walk in. Naturally, it's in the center, so you're forced to "admire" the statue. Chain ropes surrounded the sections of grass. The school board claims 'the chains are placed there for a purpose of stability only,' though everyone pretty much knows they care about their precious grass.