Melancholic

My name is Emily Samantha Welch.

I have severe melancholic depression.

I am addicted to cigarettes.

I use marijuana both medicinally and recreationally.

I am usually not sober.

I push people away.

I make fun of myself constantly.

I have cut myself many times.

I have a mild eating disorder.

I meet people, too many people, off the internet.

I use drugs.

I cry a lot.

I am tired.

I have body image troubles.

I am trouble.

I am suicidal.

I am the most narcissistic, self-conscious person you will ever meet.

I tell my mom I’ll try harder, but I don’t have much to give anymore.

And this is where I’m at right now.

Melancholic

Depressed

Disheartened

Hurt

Wounded

Pained

Sad

Lonely

Blue

Dejected

Rejected

Fucked up

Angry

Furious

Livid

Upset

Unhappy

Anxious

Miserable

Down

Low

Lower

Rock bottom.

Part 1: The Breakdown

I’ve just thrown up.

I had two large, iced Lubbock High’s from J&B.

J&B is a little “hole-in-the-wall” coffee shop in Lubbock, TX.

Nice place.

I’ve also had three (four?) cigarettes today.

All on an empty stomach.

I can smell the mocha/caramel/hazelnut bile in my nose.

The excess smoke scent burns my nostrils as it lingers.

The stomach acid fills my throat with its bitterness.

Corroding my esophagus.

I used to tell people, “I don’t even drink coffee, and I don’t really like caffeine.”

I’m sitting in my car in front of my house, windows down.

I don’t have AC.

It’s evening.

Cool.

There’s a gentle breeze.

Sweet air, filled with the fragrance of roses from my front yard.

I can barely keep my head up.

I lie my head against my car door with the window open.

I’m fucking up my life, I think to myself.

God, I’m fucking up.

I withdrew from Texas A&M University of Galveston in October 2016.

Due to depression.

Depressing.

One day, I got really high by myself.

I drove to one of my friends’ and my beaches.

“Sunny Beach.”

Ironic.

Evening quickly approaching.

I, alone.

I had my octopus pipe—his name is Gil—my sister got me for my 18th birthday.

He’s the cutest.

I walked up the beach, gripping Gil’s mantle.

His tentacles dug into my palm.

Hidden.

Small, grass-covered dunes were scattered on either side of the small valley.

Among the weeds was a colony of crabs.

Such frightened creatures.

I waited until an older man fishing in the water was out of sight.

Flick.

The green plant burned slow.

I could feel the smoke curl inside my lungs.

I held my breath for a second.

A woman jogged by.

I wonder if she smokes.

I held for another second.

Earbuds in.

She was listening to music.

I could feel the effects of Mary Jane taking her hold on me.

Another second.

Probably in her forties.

I wonder if I will live to be forty.

Then she was gone.

I exhaled.

I don’t remember the taste or the smell of that day.

Obviously weed smells like weed.

So I smelled that, and of it.

But it felt better than it smelled

I was wearing black overalls I think.

The sky was speckled with clouds threatening to pour.

My eyes too threaten to pour.

The wind blew gently.

I could feel every fiber tingle as the air settled on to my head.

The sun was setting to my right.

West.

Duh.

I don’t know why I remember the sunrise and sunset as RESW (pronounced res-swah, like swamp without the mp).

It’s a funny little memory thing.

Rise East Set West.

Sometimes I don’t remember that very well.

Especially in this state.

This state.

High.

I continued to toke until the sun set.

I made my way back down the beach to my car.

3MILY

My license plate with a sunflower on it.

My mom picked it out for me.

She knows me better than I like to admit, my mom.

At least about some things, like my taste.

I don’t know why I don’t admit this more.

Perhaps because we butt heads so frequently.

Not as much as when I was younger.

It was wretched back then.

That was a tangent.

I drove back to campus.

I sat in my car for a bit, listening to music.

Spotify, to be specific.

“Cheap Thrillz” like Sia’s “Cheap Thrills.”

I named the playlist.

I listen to it when I need a pick-me-up.

Speaking of pick-me-ups.

My two best friends were in my dorm, cooking dinner.

I truly do have the best friends.

Ellie and Carrie.

I climbed the stairs, tired as always.

I’m always tired.

I don’t remember the last time I wasn’t tired, honestly.

My first memory is from when I was three.

I was in preschool at All Saints Episcopal School in Lubbock, TX.

My teacher, I don’t remember which, handed out marbles.

We had two teachers.

Both nice.

But still I don’t remember.

I don’t remember why we were given marbles.

We were close to the carpet.

I liked the floor.

There was always a seat for everyone.

I was tired then too.

But that’s all I remember.

I unlocked my dorm room.

My dorm had real keys.

Not a scan card or fob or whatever.

It was cool.

Vintage.

I went in, the light on, and my two, wonderful friends were there to greet me.

How could I be so unhappy?

I sat near them, on the floor I think.

I like sitting on the floor.

I’ve always liked sitting on the floor.

It’s humbling.

Plus, I’m used to looking up at people.

Like a small child.

Like I am still three years old.

Tired.

Small.

Weak.

Frail.

Naïve.

Lost.

They were talking about something.

I cannot remember what it was.

I can’t remember anything anymore.

They asked me how I was.

I probably said, “fine,” like usual.

I don’t remember the in-between stuff much.

But I remember crying.

I remember that lucidly.

My eyes were scrunched up, tears rolling like the stones.

It was hard crying.

Ugly crying.

Bawling.

Sobbing.

Mourning.

Howling.

Sniveling.

Grieving?

Snot-dripping, eye-puffing, throat-constricting, disgusting, sad crying.

And I could not stop.

They were talking to me.

Carrie and Ellie.

Ellie was being direct.

Carrie, comforting.

I remember wanting to wake up, as if I were having a nightmare.

My hood over my head and face.

Fetal position

Tears pouring into my knees as I pulled them closer.

As if my knees were the only things I had left to hold on to.

I couldn’t wake up.

I wanted so desperately to wake up.

I have acid in my wallet.

The thought drowned out my beloved Ellie’s talking.

Contemplations of death swarming into view.

If I’m fucked up, I’ll have the courage to drive off the sea wall.

It began raining.

Before or after I got back to my dorm is beyond me.

Ellie was still talking.

Carrie was holding me.

You know how in some movies and TV shows when people aren’t listening, the people talking sound like “wah wah wah, blah blah”?

That’s what Ellie and Carrie sounded like.

Like talking underwater.

Incoherent.

Warped.

Drowned out.

Skewed.

Perverted almost.

I wanted so desperately to wake up.

I can’t remember after that.