“Go ahead, drink bleach!” [cue laughter]

When I was a sophomore in high school there was this girl who I became friends with, unbeknownst to me that she was an unplugged grenade that was seconds away from spewing shards in my face.

She was a fluffy gal whose vanity was so pungent, you had to excuse yourself to go outside to take in some fresh air. She was a conniving, deceitful, and voluptuous girl who took advantage of my gullibility, innocence, and kindness. I entrusted my secrets to her and thought of her as a friend, and assumed she would be supportive.

Here it is, an unleashed and uncensored story of my high school years where I dealt with social reconstruction, conformity, doubt, and the cherry on top, this “friend” of mine.

I like to think that every one, during some time in their life, has befriended or have had some sort of relationship to someone that was unhealthy to their life. This girl, who I’ll call Coach Inc., is the epitome of that person who is so smart that they’re evil. She’s the apple to Snow White and the midnight strike to Cinderella. I give her the pseudo name of such designer name because all she ever carried, were Coach handbags. Yes, as a sophomore girl, she carried designer named handbags and wore only hundred dollar priced clothing. I should’ve known from the get-go.

I hated high school. I was the girl who knew everyone, and everyone knew me. I was going through that phase in every adolescent’s life where you’re unsure of who you are and blah blah blah, all the nonsensical things in life that you look back on now, and just shake your head.

I did OK in school. By OK, I mean, I wasn’t shunned by the Asians even though I wasn’t apart of the mathletes. But I did become the lesser version of that and became a swimmer. I would like to think I did well despite my arms’ tendency to dislocate.

Sophomore year was a dark year and it only progressed. Junior year was the worst. I had become the infamous “best friends” term with Coach Inc. and the need to stop living was expanding along with my pant size. I would express my feelings to her and tell her stories of such cases where people experimented with household products and were successful. She would encourage my thoughts and even said she would help. I really thought she was joking. She did say one day, “Abby, need I call the suicide hotline for you?” Need you? Must you? If I were in her shoes, I would’ve called the hotline without asking. But let’s be honest, I wouldn’t ever want to bind my feet into barbie sized stilettos.

Against all odds, turns out I’m a statistic. Psychologists and studies have proven that girls are more likely to contemplate about the action of suicide and choose subtler ways of going, whereas guys are more likely to carry through with the thought, and in harsher form as well. I thought about all the ways I could choose to go. Drugs? Not likely since I wasn’t on allowance, nor did I have a job. Poison? Not my preferred choice. Bleach? The best way since it is a household item and was free. I recalled a newstory I read in the paper and recited it back to Coach Inc.. I told her how a mother killed her children by forcing them to drink bleach. Our calls consisted of my anxiety, worry, and this vacillating decision I was conflicted with. During one particular call, she actually told me, “Go ahead, drink bleach!” with laughs following every word. She even exclaimed that she would hold a funnel over my mouth so I wouldn’t cause a mess and turn everything white. Where was Michael Jackson.

Sometimes death does seem like the best solution in life. The suicidal thoughts all come rushing back to me when I worry about financial obligations that are pending, or the fact that my parents would’ve had a far better life had I not been born. If those thoughts weren’t sufficient enough, my mom would aid in solidifying my emotions more by saying, “Oh we would live in a huge house if we didn’t support you in music,” or “we wouldn’t be in debt if it weren’t for your education,” or my all time favorite, “you know, I had to force dad to love you.” Now, I always knew my dad didn’t like kids but I assumed even a kid hater would learn to love his own offspring. I guess not. I did always have the tendency to like those who never liked me back. Money sucks, love sucks, life sucks… but only when I’m with family. So really, family sucks; now I have used the word “suck” so many times, it has lost its meaning. I sincerely wish I liked my family or where I came from, but I don’t. If anything, I’m a bit ashamed. I want to credit it to my family for moulding my personality into such a mean person, but the blame is on me. I can choose to be either nice or mean. Why I feel the need to be mean to people, is not acceptable and I cannot attribute it to my past; for now is the present and future. I can be nice when I want to be. No, I will be a nicer person from now on. To all the people who I know, have just met, and will meet: I am sorry.

People say you should love your mother and I know people who are just madly, unconditionally, in love with their moms or are best friends with theirs… I wonder what that is like. I also wish I could say I “love” my mom, but that would be a lack of integrity on my part. Do I love the man who supposedly was forced to love me? I do. Odd? I am odd.

I often wonder if anyone would notice my disappearance, or if my parents would know. Sure you all would creepily say in unison, “course!” But living a spontaneous, nomadic life, gives the opportunity to disappear into the unknown without a trace left behind. Now that I think of it, I would be an ideal candidate for a serial killer.

And so it goes.