Finding My Way Home

CW: Themes of mental health, sucicide, self-harm

The wind cuts through my cardigan, so thin it’s barely worth wearing. I pull it tighter around me and hug my knees, looking out at the sea. The salty air coats my tongue as I swallow back tears. I’m not sure how I ended up here. I took a trip, and on my journey I passed through the town I used to live in, with the fish and chip shop I sat in with friends every Friday. For a year, we met there after school every week. We shared chips, and swapped stories and advice, leaving the darkness behind and walking home on a brighter path. But one by one, they all left. Became too busy, made new friends, or simply stopped replying, until I was left alone. My parents died in a car accident when I was four, and I’d been living with my nan ever since. The years passed, and she grew older, dying on my nineteenth birthday. I have no other family. I found an office job several hours away, and a room to rent nearby. The sand changed to not-so-green fields, riddled with cigarette butts and empty cans. Seagulls turned to pigeons, picking through the rubbish. My body feels as exhausted as my mind. I must have been walking for hours. I reach into my pocket and pull out a train ticket I don’t remember buying, examining it trying to recall my journey. The waves crash against the rocks beneath me, and I’ve an urge to jump in the water, scream beneath the surface and free myself of the weight I’m carrying. I won’t. I can never take the plunge.

In the distance, a small group venture across the rocks. It’s hard to tell if they’re walking towards me or away from me. I squint, trying to focus my eyes, but they threaten to pour. I watch a man slip, and the others help him to his feet. They’re getting closer. I sigh, hoping to be left alone, and reach for my rucksack that sits by my feet. It’s black and worn, matching the clothes I’m wearing. Inside is my journal, a battered key to the thoughts that keep me company at night. I pull it out and flick through it, skimming over my words trying to find an answer that will end my misery. But I’m faced with riddles, unfinished sentences and smudged ink. I used to bottle everything up. It stirred inside me before spilling out onto those close by until no one remained. Now this journal takes the wrath of my inner demons. A seagull walks a few metres from me, picking at a blue carrier bag blown over by the wind. It searches for a couple of minutes, trying to find any residue left by food, but it flies away empty-beaked. I turn back to the sea. It’s hypnotising watching it spill onto the sand and then back out again. The sound of the waves calms me. It’s as if they’re gently shushing the world and reminding everyone to pause. I used to love stepping into the water and feeling it wash away the sand between my toes. Once I swam out farther than I was comfortable with, and struggled to swim back to shore, my limbs aching from the movement as I kicked my way back. I inhaled a mouthful of salty water, and despite drinking the carton of apple juice I'd brought with me, I couldn’t get rid of the taste for ages. I never went further than just dipping my toes in after that.

I think of Tom back at home. I wonder if he’s thinking of me. Since we met at a party two years ago, he’s always tried to support me as best as he could. I warned him before we got together that I’m not always fun to be around; that I prefer nights in alone rather than going out and socialising. He said he wasn’t one to go out often anyway, and he seemed to understand me more than most. As the weeks went on, he began spending his evenings in with me. We’d take turns cooking and choosing films to watch. It was nice to have someone there, in my comfort place, without having to pretend to be someone I’m not. He tried hard, really he did. On the days I couldn’t get out of bed, and I sobbed uncontrollably, he’d put a blanket over me and cradle me in his arms. His curly brown hair, soft against my cheek. He didn’t need to say much; just having him there was comfort enough. But lately, I can feel his patience is wearing thin. He got fed up with asking me along to dinners with friends and meeting others, and started going alone. Once he even stayed out all night, and I never questioned where he was. I didn’t want to know, and deep down I would understand if he strayed away. I’m better off in the dark.

The voices are getting closer. One of them calls out, but I turn my head away and ignore it. Maybe if stay silent, they’ll move on. I close my eyes and dream of a parallel life. One in which my parents never went out that night, and my friends didn’t abandon me. They stayed here, and we grew up together. Friends together forever. I didn’t understand why everyone in my life had left me. I think a part of me has always been stuck here, in this town, searching for the closure I never got. Moving away only increased the yearning and hid any alternative paths that were made for me.

A hand on my shoulder jolts me into reality. “Get up.” I turn to face him, and I’m met with eyes the colour of death. A few seconds pass before he holds out a hand. Two others step out behind him, and I feel my skin prickle. The rocks are in my stomach now. I push the hand away. I don’t want to be saved. I can’t trust the strangers who stand beside me. A second voice says, “Let’s go back, Ella”. This voice is familiar, but the tone is not warm; it’s as cold as the wind that wraps itself around me. I don’t know who these people are, but they seem to know me. The third person steps forward, and I catch sight of a lanyard around his neck, and thick-rimmed glasses tucked neatly in his front pocket. My brain screams danger. I pick up my rucksack and I run.

I dash across the rocks, terrified I’m going to slip and skid down into the crashing waves beneath, but more scared of being caught by those chasing after me. I glance back as I reach the road, and see that they’ve almost caught up. I run past the pier, the antique shops, and the tearoom, my chest burning as my lungs struggle to open up. The footsteps are heavy and fast. I breathe in a waft of aftershave, and my heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest. There’s a pub on the corner with a large group of people outside drinking and smoking, throwing chips at the seagulls across the road. It’s getting darker. Headlights blind me, and I lose my footing. Behind, I hear laughter and shouting. I stagger into the road and a car screeches as it swerves. My hands reach out to cover my face, there’s a thud, and then a scream.

I turn around, my head throbbing. But I’m on the other side of the road. I made it across. I see the man with the dark eyes laying on the floor, blood spilling out from his head onto the pavement. The other two he was with, lean over him, screeching. I get to my feet and carry on running until I reach the train station. I scan the departure board hoping to recognise a destination. Looking for a place I now call home. One name looks familiar, a four-minute wait. It’s enough. I purchase a ticket at the machine, and head onto the platform, walking until I reach the far end of it. My memory is foggy. I don’t feel guilt about what happened back on the road. Something tells me he deserved to die, but I can’t explain why I think that. I just knew he was a bad person, and I feared him. There are gaps in my timeline that are waiting to be filled. At the moment, everything has sunk into a void, waiting to be released.

When I was growing up, I couldn’t understand why the darkness came and left me feeling so low. It felt as if I were sinking deeper and deeper into a hole with no escape, and the more I tried to claw my way out, the more tired I became, not just physically, but emotionally. I thought that someone would come along and rescue me. I’m not sure who, as there was no one in my life at the time who saw my pain. Perhaps I was waiting for a stranger with a kind ear to enter my life and help me see things differently. But that person never came, and no one helped me. I wanted to give up for so long. To end this suffering and become like everybody else, I crossed paths with who seemed happy and were making the most of their lives. I thought that moving away and starting over would help me escape. Tom tried, but he doesn't understand me the way I needed to be understood. He can't help me. The darkness follows me wherever I go. Maybe no one will ever come. If that’s the case, then I need to find a way out. There is no one who wants to rescue me more than I so desperately want to save myself.