In the Waiting Process

Alaska

I was six years old when my beautiful baby brother was born. I wasn't an only child anymore and I was ecstatic! My mom was diagnosed with lung and ovarian cancer when he was only six months old. I never understood how dangerous that was back then. My mom would basically live at the hospital. I missed her but my grandma said it would make her better so I never complained. My dad was working two jobs trying to keep up with the hospital bills. When he wasn't working, he was at the hospital with my mom. I rarely ever saw either of them. My grandma would watch over my brother and I. She was old and couldn't do everything that a normal babysitter would. I took on the role. I basically raised my brother alone at the age of six. I changed diapers, put him to sleep, and soothed him when he cried. His second word was directed towards me, “mom”. I loved him more than anything.

My mother survived. He turned three, I turned nine. Like any other nine year old, I wanted to sleep over my friend’s house, I wanted freedom. It was the first time I would be sleeping in any other house but mine. She was sick with pneumonia. I never understood what it was. My parents described it as the flu. They told me not to go but I threw the biggest fight, something unusual. I was never the bratty child but on that day I became one. They let me go.

I caught pneumonia. I passed it onto my brother. On December 2nd I was at school. I remember I was happy at that moment. I got an emergency phone call. My brother had died at 3 ½. My parents never talk about his death, I'm sure they blame me though. I doubt they loved him half as much as I did. I haven't been happy since.

I started drinking. Yes, at the age of almost 10. It never helped. I was depressed. I didn't care about anything anymore. I stopped doing everything I loved, like dancing and reading. I had one friend left. I now know that she was all I needed. I thought about suicide so many damn times but I didn't because of my one and only friend who loved me. I’m 16 now. I’m known around my school, I guess you could say I'm popular. Not like it matters. I’m pretty but nothing special. My grades are amazing. I have tons of “friends”. I party every weekend. I still drink and I also smoke cigarettes when the pain gets really bad. When the memories come back I swallow pills.

I have nightmares, really bad ones that make me scared to even fall asleep. I've seen multiple therapists, I hate them all. The only person who knows my story is my best friend (same one from the past) and a stranger that I confessed to when I was a drunk mess. I don’t want to live. I hate this world and everyone in it. The only reason I haven’t killed myself yet is because of my best friend. I love her too much to hurt her. Once she’s gone then I’ll go too. I don’t talk to my parents even though we live in the same house. We’re strangers. I hate the holiday season. One person knows the real me. I smile and I laugh on the outside but on the inside I just want someone to shoot me. I party and everyone thinks I’m having fun and what not but really I’m just waiting to finish this shot so I can down the next one, in hopes of getting alcohol poison. I miss my brother. I’m a horrible person.

The sad thing is if you met me you would think I was perfect, happy, and fun when in reality I’m just waiting to die, the only thing that can make me happy again.