deepundergroundpoetry.com
Pain (It is still in the process of being written but here is what I have)
I didn’t know it would hurt this much. I’m still feeling pain. It hurts so much to see. I’m watching them all cry to each other. I see some hugging everyone around them. I hear the ones who are able to hold it together share their personal stories about me. Some choose to crack jokes to lighten the mood. My brother, Eric, chose his favorite picture of me for my eulogy card. It’s my senior picture. My hair is in a messy bun. I’m wearing black trousers and a white tank top. I’m standing there with my arms folded across my chest with a closed smile across my face. Everyone is saying that picture suites me perfectly. It depicts me so well, especially towards the end.
“She definitely took after Renee with that curly dark hair and those big green eyes,” a friend of the family points out to her husband as they both study my picture.
Eric and my sister, Emma, are standing right next to my closed casket. Eric is thanking everyone for coming as he somehow manages to bear a grin. Emma can barely speak from being so choked up. She is clinging on to everyone’s sleeves as she buries her face in their comfort. I can’t stand the sight of seeing either of them in this much pain. In addition to having no parents, they have lost their sister. They have no more Hannah. I wish they didn’t have to live through all of this. Some would say it’s my entire fault. I took the coward’s way out at my own family’s expense. I committed a selfish act. Now I must pay for it in Hell. To some degree, I would not blame anyone for having those thoughts. But there is one thing no one ever understands unless they go through this themselves. Because the truth of the matter is, I didn’t do it to hurt anybody. I didn’t do it to make anyone feel remorse. I didn’t do it to end my life. I did it to end the pain. I wasn’t at peace here. There was nothing anyone could do to make it better, not even me. I was just becoming more and more unhappy.
I always wanted to be a therapist. I planned on going to college to get my degree in psychology and then getting my masters in education so I could be a school psychologist. This especially became an aspiration after my parents died when I was ten. I also wanted to help kids like me. The kids no one every fully understood; teachers, students, parents. The kids who were seen as difficult or misunderstood; I wanted to take them under my wing. When I was four years old, I was diagnosed with ADHD with a difficulty in conduct. There was never a time where I was not being yelled at for climbing on furniture or not completing a task. So I was placed in resource room throughout the majority of my school career. My parents refused to put me on medication due to their personal beliefs on it. My teachers resented both me and them for it. It would have made their lives a lot easier if I was. Even at the age of eight, my teachers still had to pull me into my seat. I was always singled out from the other children. In elementary school, my third grade teacher would place me in a small room with one desk. There were no pictures, posters on the walls, nothing. It was a plain, white room. She was only supposed to keep me there for ten minutes like it said in my IEP. But sometimes it would last for an hour, sometimes two. After all I had experienced at such a young age, I wanted to turn it around and help people with similar issues to my own. So, I found a rehabilitation center that hired me to help out in the kitchen. I finally thought I was beginning to fulfill my dream. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I was seventeen when I started working at this group home for the mentally ill. Since I was a still a minor, I could only work in the kitchen. I served meals and sometimes even helped cook them. Even from the kitchen, I saw this was not a home. It was a prison; torture’s palace. In the eyes of the hospital, the patients weren’t people. They were fiends. They were nothing but dangers to society. And they needed to be stopped. The patients were dehumanized in every way possible. Their belongings were taken way. There was no privacy. They were always under a critical eye. Their rooms were small, contained, and plain. It too was a room with bare white walls. It brought back memories of the room Ms. Dwyer used to keep me in when I was misbehaving. Although I was on the other side of the door, I felt it should have been me who was strapped to the bed. It felt like it was me being violated. I couldn’t stand seeing people in pain. I always hated the sight of any living species being tortured. Now it was all happening right in front of my face. I felt as if there was no escape. It was a reminder of who I once was.
My psychiatrist diagnosed me with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Depression and Anxiety my senior year of high school. I did what I could to hide it from my friends. I didn’t want to worry them. I also didn’t want to tell them due to their lack of compassion. Once I got around to telling them, my former friend, Rebecca said she didn’t believe a word of it. She thought I was using it as a crutch for being difficult, from the little that she knew. She had to be kidding me. I wish I could be happy. I wish I didn’t have to feel on edge, constantly. It was more than depression/anxiety. I was in a maze. I couldn’t get out of it. I would become so frustrated with everything and everyone. I became a neurotic, paranoid creature. At times, I didn’t even feel like a functioning human being. I had trouble concentrating in school. I lost my job because I had missed so many days. I even had trouble trying to communicate what I wanted to say. I felt exactly like all those children, especially when they were sedated. I would have more than just vivid flashbacks. The flashbacks would come to life. One major sign of PTSD is reliving what happened. I would experience these episodes on a daily basis. At times I would act out, just like the children did. At times I would imagine it was me being strapped to the bed. I couldn’t be in small rooms, watch horror films or discuss anything regarding restraining. All fears I had prior to working at the hospital, magnified. Everything I had not taken any notice to, became my biggest fears. I couldn’t be in large social groups. I felt so small. I felt like I had no voice. While everyone else would be talking about politics, movies, books, their friends, their goals, I would sit there, staring off into space with nothing to say. I felt like I wasn’t even able to pass off for being functioning human being. I became a human vegetable. I wasn’t in control of anything anymore. Every aspect of my life was changing from that one traumatic event. I couldn’t sleep, speak or even feel at times. I couldn’t live like this anymore.
It was a few weeks before I had planned to leave for school. Some say I should have talked about it. I should have tried going therapy, investing in medication, anything but this. The thing is, I had tried. I had talked about it. I had taken the initiative to get help. I realized that I wasn’t getting better. I had barely anybody I could call. Eric and Emma became my parents after our own died in a car accident. I didn’t want to worry them because I knew I would instantly be admitted into a hospital. I knew they wouldn’t have done that to put me through all the pain the children I worked with went through. They would do it to save my life. I had never felt so unsure of myself. Thoughts raced through my mind of how I would stand in college. I didn’t find anything I had to offer. I would eventually just be a leach, a burden. I was becoming a parasite on medication. Emma and Eric shouldn’t have had to worry about me anymore. Did I write a note? A lot of people ask that question of people who end their lives. The answer is yes. I had to say my piece to them somehow. It was short and simple. It was written like this.
Dear Eric and Emma,
You were and are the best siblings any human being could ever ask for. I will miss you both so much. I didn’t do this to make either of you suffer. I didn’t do it to end my life. I did it to end the pain. I love you both.
Love Forever and Always,
Hannah
There is nothing worse than hearing the scream and cry from someone you love. I always liked being up in the air. I always loved plane rides. I always loved roller coasters. When I was younger I wanted to be a bird. I was one of the few people who actually loved heights. I thought doing what I loved was the best way to go. So, I took the rope from downstairs. I remembered how to make a hole in the rope from my dad. He was the troop leader of my brother’s Boy Scout troop. They used to always use rope to tie up wood. I took the stepping stool out from under the tool table. Did I have second thoughts? A little part of me did. But I didn’t feel there was any other way. No, I was not being a coward. No, I was not being selfish. I had many thoughts of suicide in the past and refused to go about it all because of Eric and Emma. I had been dying for years. I had stop living from the time I stepped foot in the hospital. It slowly but surely, killed me.
“She definitely took after Renee with that curly dark hair and those big green eyes,” a friend of the family points out to her husband as they both study my picture.
Eric and my sister, Emma, are standing right next to my closed casket. Eric is thanking everyone for coming as he somehow manages to bear a grin. Emma can barely speak from being so choked up. She is clinging on to everyone’s sleeves as she buries her face in their comfort. I can’t stand the sight of seeing either of them in this much pain. In addition to having no parents, they have lost their sister. They have no more Hannah. I wish they didn’t have to live through all of this. Some would say it’s my entire fault. I took the coward’s way out at my own family’s expense. I committed a selfish act. Now I must pay for it in Hell. To some degree, I would not blame anyone for having those thoughts. But there is one thing no one ever understands unless they go through this themselves. Because the truth of the matter is, I didn’t do it to hurt anybody. I didn’t do it to make anyone feel remorse. I didn’t do it to end my life. I did it to end the pain. I wasn’t at peace here. There was nothing anyone could do to make it better, not even me. I was just becoming more and more unhappy.
I always wanted to be a therapist. I planned on going to college to get my degree in psychology and then getting my masters in education so I could be a school psychologist. This especially became an aspiration after my parents died when I was ten. I also wanted to help kids like me. The kids no one every fully understood; teachers, students, parents. The kids who were seen as difficult or misunderstood; I wanted to take them under my wing. When I was four years old, I was diagnosed with ADHD with a difficulty in conduct. There was never a time where I was not being yelled at for climbing on furniture or not completing a task. So I was placed in resource room throughout the majority of my school career. My parents refused to put me on medication due to their personal beliefs on it. My teachers resented both me and them for it. It would have made their lives a lot easier if I was. Even at the age of eight, my teachers still had to pull me into my seat. I was always singled out from the other children. In elementary school, my third grade teacher would place me in a small room with one desk. There were no pictures, posters on the walls, nothing. It was a plain, white room. She was only supposed to keep me there for ten minutes like it said in my IEP. But sometimes it would last for an hour, sometimes two. After all I had experienced at such a young age, I wanted to turn it around and help people with similar issues to my own. So, I found a rehabilitation center that hired me to help out in the kitchen. I finally thought I was beginning to fulfill my dream. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I was seventeen when I started working at this group home for the mentally ill. Since I was a still a minor, I could only work in the kitchen. I served meals and sometimes even helped cook them. Even from the kitchen, I saw this was not a home. It was a prison; torture’s palace. In the eyes of the hospital, the patients weren’t people. They were fiends. They were nothing but dangers to society. And they needed to be stopped. The patients were dehumanized in every way possible. Their belongings were taken way. There was no privacy. They were always under a critical eye. Their rooms were small, contained, and plain. It too was a room with bare white walls. It brought back memories of the room Ms. Dwyer used to keep me in when I was misbehaving. Although I was on the other side of the door, I felt it should have been me who was strapped to the bed. It felt like it was me being violated. I couldn’t stand seeing people in pain. I always hated the sight of any living species being tortured. Now it was all happening right in front of my face. I felt as if there was no escape. It was a reminder of who I once was.
My psychiatrist diagnosed me with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Depression and Anxiety my senior year of high school. I did what I could to hide it from my friends. I didn’t want to worry them. I also didn’t want to tell them due to their lack of compassion. Once I got around to telling them, my former friend, Rebecca said she didn’t believe a word of it. She thought I was using it as a crutch for being difficult, from the little that she knew. She had to be kidding me. I wish I could be happy. I wish I didn’t have to feel on edge, constantly. It was more than depression/anxiety. I was in a maze. I couldn’t get out of it. I would become so frustrated with everything and everyone. I became a neurotic, paranoid creature. At times, I didn’t even feel like a functioning human being. I had trouble concentrating in school. I lost my job because I had missed so many days. I even had trouble trying to communicate what I wanted to say. I felt exactly like all those children, especially when they were sedated. I would have more than just vivid flashbacks. The flashbacks would come to life. One major sign of PTSD is reliving what happened. I would experience these episodes on a daily basis. At times I would act out, just like the children did. At times I would imagine it was me being strapped to the bed. I couldn’t be in small rooms, watch horror films or discuss anything regarding restraining. All fears I had prior to working at the hospital, magnified. Everything I had not taken any notice to, became my biggest fears. I couldn’t be in large social groups. I felt so small. I felt like I had no voice. While everyone else would be talking about politics, movies, books, their friends, their goals, I would sit there, staring off into space with nothing to say. I felt like I wasn’t even able to pass off for being functioning human being. I became a human vegetable. I wasn’t in control of anything anymore. Every aspect of my life was changing from that one traumatic event. I couldn’t sleep, speak or even feel at times. I couldn’t live like this anymore.
It was a few weeks before I had planned to leave for school. Some say I should have talked about it. I should have tried going therapy, investing in medication, anything but this. The thing is, I had tried. I had talked about it. I had taken the initiative to get help. I realized that I wasn’t getting better. I had barely anybody I could call. Eric and Emma became my parents after our own died in a car accident. I didn’t want to worry them because I knew I would instantly be admitted into a hospital. I knew they wouldn’t have done that to put me through all the pain the children I worked with went through. They would do it to save my life. I had never felt so unsure of myself. Thoughts raced through my mind of how I would stand in college. I didn’t find anything I had to offer. I would eventually just be a leach, a burden. I was becoming a parasite on medication. Emma and Eric shouldn’t have had to worry about me anymore. Did I write a note? A lot of people ask that question of people who end their lives. The answer is yes. I had to say my piece to them somehow. It was short and simple. It was written like this.
Dear Eric and Emma,
You were and are the best siblings any human being could ever ask for. I will miss you both so much. I didn’t do this to make either of you suffer. I didn’t do it to end my life. I did it to end the pain. I love you both.
Love Forever and Always,
Hannah
There is nothing worse than hearing the scream and cry from someone you love. I always liked being up in the air. I always loved plane rides. I always loved roller coasters. When I was younger I wanted to be a bird. I was one of the few people who actually loved heights. I thought doing what I loved was the best way to go. So, I took the rope from downstairs. I remembered how to make a hole in the rope from my dad. He was the troop leader of my brother’s Boy Scout troop. They used to always use rope to tie up wood. I took the stepping stool out from under the tool table. Did I have second thoughts? A little part of me did. But I didn’t feel there was any other way. No, I was not being a coward. No, I was not being selfish. I had many thoughts of suicide in the past and refused to go about it all because of Eric and Emma. I had been dying for years. I had stop living from the time I stepped foot in the hospital. It slowly but surely, killed me.
Published 21st Feb 2012
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21st Feb 2012 3:08pm
25th Feb 2012 11:43pm
I remember reading for the first time when you showed it to me last year. It's still just as amazing to me as it was then. <3
24th Nov 2012 00:47am
