This is the story of a depressive's life, told through a letter to the stranger who will find her dead. She has spent her whole life running away from the truth, but is she really hurtling towards the truth?
I suppose it’s true what they say, about your parents knowing you the best. Mine tried to tell me something I never should have known, and I ran away. Looking back on it now, I don’t even know whether I was running away from them, or myself. That, kind stranger, is up to you to decide. Do not weep over my pathetic mangled body; you didn’t know my mind. My poor, twisted mind.
It all started when I was fourteen. I was a very intuitive child, and knew when there was something wrong. Either that or the people that my parents told were loud talkers. I wonder if they ever shared my secret with anyone. I knew there was something wrong with my cousin, but what, I could not tell. Once I swore I heard the word ‘hospital’ in a phone conversation, but I thought I was just imagining the worst. Fourteen is a very odd age - you are neither child nor adult enough, despite your attempts. I know some girls in my year started going to clubs at the age of fourteen. Some lost their virginity. I, however, starved myself.
I had never been the one to voice her problems or worries and I didn’t know how to deal with this treatment. Was I just a child in their view? An insignificant pupae, not yet fully formed? Every day for six months I woke up feeling sick and unable to eat. Whenever I did, I used to prod my swollen stomach in the mirror, sometimes crying, telling it to just go away. You could soon see my ribcage, and at the time, I didn’t know how much it scared everyone; all I could think about was how it made me look like Kate Moss - like an adult. Sexy and fully-fledged. Only those who dared (and those who had to) stayed with me. It brought me closer to Sam - my cousin - somehow, and I even wore a black ribbon around my left wrist, to show defiance against my decided ignorance. The summer had an eternal black cloud hanging over it, and I couldn’t move it. Maybe I didn’t want to. I never really knew whether I felt comforted by these seasons that I had control over; that only I could control.