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More Storm Than Girl

Prologue + Chapter 1

By Lexus JacobsPublished 4 years ago 9 min read
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Prologue:

Mom,

I can't do this anymore. It hurts to even get out of bed. When I wake up in the morning I'm angry that I did. I have to force myself to get up. I have to force myself to keep breathing. I have to force myself to pay attention in class and eat and be active. That's not what life is. Life should be something to be excited about, not a forced act. I've been feeling like this for a long time. I've wanted to leave for a long while. I'm just so fucking tired.

I just want to sleep.

Sometimes it feels hard to breathe. Like I shouldn't be doing it. I'd rather be dead than never be good enough for anyone, not even myself. I'm just done. I love you, mom, but I can't stay here. I just can’t do it anymore. I’m so sorry. Bye.

Love, Lucy

Chapter 1 (LUCY)

I woke up in a white room with white sheets and white lamps and white boards with my stats on them. I tried to make out the words through blurry vision. "Lucy Odell. Suicide attempt. Overdose." And a bunch of medical terminology I gave up on reading. I looked down at my body, my arms hooked up to wires, a hideous white gown dangling from my thin frame.

As my vision began to clear a heavy set, fair skinned woman walked into the room wearing light blue scrubs and black running shoes. She walked over to my bedside and rested her hand on mine. I pulled it away. I tried to speak but my throat ached and I could do nothing but cough and retch. She told me to "shhh" and put a finger to my lips. I rolled my eyes. Nurse Keller, as her name tag read, began to fiddle with the machines hooked up to me, and reading my vitals. "Morning miss Odell," she spoke, her voice full of far too much joy. "I'm Emiline Keller, your nurse, and Dr. Johnson over there," she said pointing out the glass wall, to the man in a white coat, glasses and salt and pepper hair at the desk, "is your physician. He's the one who saved you last night after your mother called the ambulance." I sighed. "We're lucky we got to you in time." My eyes followed her hands as she scribbled notes about me onto her clipboard. "He spent the night pumping your stomach. You took quite a lot of pills dear. I'm glad you're okay." I am not. "Dr. Johnson will be here shortly to speak with you. He’ll be giving you some follow-up instructions.. It won't be long, we're gonna get you out of here soon." I sighed and nodded my head. She finished her final notes and exited the room.

Great. I can't even kill myself right.

Ha.

A few moments had passed and the doctor strolled in whistling and had a large smile on his face. He was oddly joyful for a man who dealt with dying people daily. He smiled at me with his crooked teeth and held out his hand for me to shake it. They were ice cold. "Hello Lucy, I'm Dr. Johnson, I--”

"Look,” I interrupted, “if you want to take me to some asylum and buckle me into a straight jacket, there is no way I'm telling you anything." It hurt to speak and my voice sounded raspy, but I've never been good at holding my tongue.

He chuckled. "Insane asylums are illegal dear, nothing to worry about. You're not crazy. You're just under a lot of mental stress that you don't know how to handle." That's an understatement. "We spoke to your mother and she refuses to let you into assisted care at our psych ward unit. She doesn't want you out of the house. She said she'd rather keep an eye on you herself."

Just like mom. She's too drunk to even pay attention to herself, let alone me. I wonder how she came in last night. She must have been frantic, Jack Daniel's on her lips, stumbling into the hospital, the slurred phone call to 911. God that must've been an interesting ride to the emergency room. I wish she would have been knocked out and had not even noticed I had overdosed. She never noticed anything else I had done.

"We suggested that we put you into intensive therapy. Three days out of the week you'll attend a therapy session with our youth psychiatrist."

"Ugh." I scoffed.

"No need to be upset, this will be good for you Lucy, you need help."

"I don't want help anymore. I just wanted to be gone. What's so wrong about that?" I replied.

"You're stronger than that. You don't need to hurt yourself, you have so much life ahead of you."

"Yeah, okay."

"I promise everything will be fine once you start attending sessions. My patients have thanked me for recommending therapy, they said they all got the help they needed and I'm praying you're going to be another success story," he said. "Your sessions start Tuesday. You will attend every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday at three o’clock to four-thirty. This will be so good for you Lucy."

"Okay doc, can I go now?"

"Yes, after your mother or a legal guardian discharges you, you are free to go."

"Okay--"

"Oh, also," he cut me off. "You need to keep a journal. To document your progress, to write out your emotions, things like that. I have one here for you." He walked over to the desk where he extracted a blue leather bound journal with floral embossing on the cover from his drawer. “Feel free to write in this at all times. In fact, take it with you and write constantly. It’s cathartic, you’ll learn to love it, I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” I warned. He smiled and handed me the book. I flipped through the pages. They were cream colored with dark brown thin lines. The pages had intricate drawings on the corners and inspirational quotes sprawled on the sides. I tucked it under my arm and thanked him for the beautiful notebook. He nodded and walked out of the room to allow me to get dressed.

I found my clothing on a chair next to the bed and put on the light wash jeans and white v-neck sweater I wore the night before. I slipped into my black converse and plopped down on the squeaky and uncomfortable bed. As I waited for my mother to come and have me released, I flipped through the channels on the outdated TV hanging above the white board.

She arrived an hour and half later after I drowned my boredom in obnoxious sitcoms with bad actors. My mother walked into the room looking frazzled as usual, her hair unbrused, her clothing wrinkled. She ran to hug me and breathed my name onto me, the smell of beer on her breath. She held me tightly and I wrapped my arms around her thin waist. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again Lucy, don’t you dare. God, I was worried sick, how could you do that to me?”

“Sorry,” I mumbled as she pulled away, still touching my shoulders.

She shook my body and spoke firmly, “You’re sorry? YOU’RE SORRY? You could have died!”

“That was the whole point mother.” I said calmly. “But I didn’t so relax.” I shrugged her hands off of me and began to walk in front of her. My mother trailed behind me and proceeded to discharge me from the hospital.

“I hope you enjoyed your stay,” the doorman said. I actually laughed. A loud cackling laugh. Who in their right mind would enjoy their stay in a hospital? It smells like menthol and death. It has no color, just bland white, as if they can purify the patients with a color. My mother shot me a disappointed glare and I closed my mouth. She has no sense of humor. Her personality disappeared when she discovered vodka.

The ride home was a silent one that seemed to never end even though the hospital was a mere fifteen minutes from the house. She pulled into the driveway and when we parked she tried to help me out of the car. “Mom, I’m fine, relax.” I said, stepping out of the vehicle. We entered the house and my eyes scanned the living room, which was a mess as usual. You would think they would clean up a little to create a welcome feeling for the should-be-dead girl. But no, the house was a mess, the carpets were stained, the bottles were sprawled on the floor, the dishes were dirty and my mother's disgusting boyfriend was passed out drunk on the couch as usual.

Nothing had changed.

I have never been a fan of Tony and I could not figure out for the life of me why my sweet mother let him into her life. He was like a hurricane destroying everything in its path and my mother and I were right in the eye of the storm. He ruined her. She used to be an upbeat woman who didn't take anyone's back talk and always spoke her mind. We were alike in that sense until he came along. Tony transformed her into a quiet, submissive woman. I hated him with everything in me. He destroyed my mother's life and he always gave me looks that made me uncomfortable. I want him out but my word no longer had meaning to my mother. It was all about him.

"Are you hungry sweetheart, I can whip you up something really quickly," mom called out to me from the kitchen.

My eyes raked over the dirty kitchen and suddenly I lost my appetite. "No thanks, I'm fine. I think I'm just going to lay down." I said, heading upstairs to my bedroom.

I kicked off my shoes and slid onto the bed. I looked down at the ground and laughed, they hadn't even bothered to pick up the pill bottle.

Typical.

I grabbed the new journal my doctor had given me and a pen off my desk, then began to scribble into the pad.

I'm such a failure. God, I hate myself. I couldn't even kill myself. Why am I still here? I don't have a purpose. I can't just sit here and watch my mom fall apart, I can't take Tony and his looks and his "accidental" brushes against my thighs, oh my God. I just can't do this. I don't want to be here anymore. I just don't. It's not worth the effort. I don't want to get help anymore. I don't want some stupid intensive therapy session. I want to die. I just want to die.

I closed the journal and slipped it underneath my pillow. I buried my face into the pillow and screamed at the top of my lungs.

I just want out.

disorder
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About the Creator

Lexus Jacobs

bachelor's of art in mass communication.

minor in creative writing.

music nerd and steamy young adult fiction lover.

living to create.

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