Nail Polish

tw: self death

I look down at my hands. My nails are painted gold - more like a gold shimmer actually. I bought this colour yesterday. I wanted nice nails for today.

When I was at the pharmacy, looking at all the different shades of nail polish, I remembered painting my nails this gold shimmer colour the day before my parent’s divorce got finalized.

My 10 year old self thought the gold on my nails would somehow make me feel better.

It didn’t.

I picked up a bottle called ‘Perfect Day’. Maybe my younger self was right. Maybe the gold will make this day easier.

It definitely did not.

24 has not been any easier than the rest of the years I’ve spent surviving on this earth. I woke up today with a text from my mom, “Happy birthday my sweet Tianna! 25 will bring you great things. I love you!” I sigh and turn off my phone. 25. Who would’ve thought I’d make it here. Not me, I’ll tell you that.

It’s a Saturday. This was my last week as a teacher. Except my students don’t know that yet and neither do my colleagues. After I graduated from uni last year, I couldn’t wait to start teaching the young vulnerable minds of children. I was one of those dedicated early 20 somethings that wanted to make a difference. To be the person I wanted to have growing up. Well, that’s over with.

I got a call from my aunt. I know she’s going to sing happy birthday. So I turn my phone on ‘do not disturb’. I need to follow my plan today, I can’t get distracted. I was planning on sleeping most of the day, until night came, just so I wouldn’t have to deal with today. Unfortunately, I got awakened by the sun beaming into my small studio apartment. I have been here for two years and still have no curtains. I wait for the sun to blind me because if not, I’d never get out of bed.

Usually on my birthdays, I feel a deep anxious knot of “kill me now” in my stomach. More expectations; more pressure; less time. I have no idea what I’m doing with my life. Today I feel a sense of relief wash over my body as I think about tonight.

I get up from bed and make it the best it’s ever been made. I never make my bed but today is different. I even fluffed my pillows. I wanted to make sure everything was orderly. I’ve been preparing for today all week. Every day after work, I completed one thing off my checklist.

On Monday, I wrote separate letters to my mom, dad, brother, and to my only friend, Cece.

On Tuesday, I cashed out all the money from my savings, and put it in an envelope for my mom.

On Wednesday, I put all my clothes in bags and donated them to a local women's shelter.

On Thursday, I deep cleaned my tiny apartment.

On Friday, I didn’t sign my lease renewal.

Now, on Saturday, the day is here. I take a deep breath. “I can do this,” I say to myself out loud for no one to hear. Suddenly, I miss Cece. I check my phone and watch a video she sent me last night. I did in fact fall asleep last night at 7 p.m. on my couch. This thing happens quite often where I eat an edible and knock out watching Brooklyn nine-nine. So, I missed her message. She’s more of a night owl than I am. And more of a day person than I am. “T, the new romcom movie with Paul Mescal came out,” she said, “I’m coming over tomorrow night to pick you up for your annual bday chic flic. See you at 7:30 girl, love ya!” I suddenly felt an ache in my chest. Will I be missing out on all new romance movies starring hot actors? And gawking over them with Cece? It’s fine. I’m too tired to stay. I know what I have to do. This is what I want.

This is what I’ve wanted to do since I first painted my nails gold.

My thoughts distracted me from messaging her back. Instead, I get up from my bed and grab my weed bag before heading to the kitchen. I put water in the kettle and then heat it up on the stove. As I wait, I roll up a little joint to go with my morning tea. This was the highlight of my weekends for as long as I can remember. I wonder if I’ll miss this. Well, guess I’ll never know. There was that ache again. But this time it was followed by teary eyes. I haven’t cried in months. My antidepressants have done nothing but made me numb. I used to feel so much. People would even tell me it was too much. 

It was now 11 a.m. and I was sitting on my balcony with a joint in one hand and a mug that says, “You go this,” in the other. I sip on my chai tea and watch the cars speed by on the highway.

I’ve tried this thing before—the living thing. I’ve done the therapy. I’ve written about my pains. I go on walks. I try to socialize. I try so much but the feeling never escapes me. This is the only way I can control my future. When I was a young, I would dream about leaving my life behind and moving far away. I yearned to be free. What a dramatic 10 year old.

Although, it seems that dramatic little girl stayed with me. Instead of moving away to be free, I’m going to kill myself.

I’ve weighed out all the options already. To live or to die, as the greats say. I don’t know what greats say that actually. This is why I will no longer be alive after tonight. Everything I say is nonsense and doesn’t matter. I don’t matter. I’m a horrible teacher, daughter, friend, sister, and human. Suddenly the heat the joint hits my lip. I wince at the slight burn and snap out of my depressive spiral—I didn’t notice the j was down to the filter. I flick it over my balcony and watch the last of it fall to the ground. “Lucky,” I think to myself.

I go back inside and take a shower. My last nice hot shower. I already had an outfit picked out. Something that says, “She hated her life but still tried.” Black jeans and a black top it was. I always felt my best in black. I’ve gotten a total of maybe five happy birthday messages today. And I answered none. What’s the point? I go sit on my shaggy carpet in the living room and watch the bright orange pill bottle on the table in front of me.

I’ve never done any other drug apart from weed. I do know that if you take enough of these pills, death will be awaiting you. I got them from this kid that lives in my building. I've seen him sell stuff before, so one day after work, I walk up to him and ask, “You got anything that could potentially be dangerous if multiple are ingested?” Maybe not the right question to ask, but if my parents taught me anything (which is very minimal), it was to always be real. With no hesitation, the probably 17 year old replied, “How much you want?” And there I was, walking up the stairs to my apartment, with drugs in my pocket.

It was about 6:30 p.m. now. I’ve spent the last few hours listening to my favourite songs and crying, still on my shaggy carpet.

It was time. The feeling was becoming too heavy to bare any longer. I get up shruggingly and grab the pill bottle on the way to my front door. I thought unlocking it would make it easier for when the paramedics or whoever find me. I lay on my perfectly made bed and pour out a handful of the white little death capsules into my mouth. I swallow a few pills at a time with the help of one of the thousand half empty water bottles in my room.

I had 911 dialled on my phone. I’d never let the people I care about find me like this. “Come to 31 avenue Charles, apartment 105,” I said to the phone operator with a completely monotone voice, “a girl is about to kill herself.” I hung up and threw my phone across the floor. I got into fetal position and let the pills take me. I couldn’t see straight. I was freezing cold. My own breath was choking me.

The last thing I saw before turning cold was Cece crying and screaming over me. I never responded to her message from this morning. Fuck. This is what I didn't want to happen. I just wanted to die.

One year later, I woke up to a text from my mom. “Happy 26th birthday my love, I’m so proud of you.” I smile and write, “Thanks, love you too. See you later,” and put my phone down. The pink hue from my curtains cast itself onto my walls. It feels so warm and comfy in my room. It feels good to be here. 

I get up from bed and walk over to Cece’s room. “Good morning Cecelia,” I say with a smile. Before she can open her eyes, I add, “It’s my birthday bitch!”

One whole year since life almost won the fight. After Cece found me, all I remember is waking up in a hospital, surrounded by the people I wrote letters to. We must’ve been there a while because everyone was asleep. I looked out the small hospital window to see the sun rising. “Why did I never wake up early enough to see this?” I thought to myself.

I survived. And I have been watching sunrises and sunsets since.

Cece and I sit in our comfy pyjamas on the couch in the living room of our place. We are eating pancakes, watching a rom-com, and smoking a morning birthday joint. Ever since I came back from the psych hospital, we’ve been living together. I was there for a week before I got discharged but I chose to stay longer. I wasn’t ready to face the world yet. The people I felt I let down. Myself. In the four months I was there, I met such good people. Group therapy was my favourite part. It made me realize I’m not alone in this. We’d draw, paint, have movie nights (yes, I did always recommend the cheesiest rom-com), and just learned how to live, I guess. Or re-live.

Now, I’m 26. I haven’t painted my nails since the night I almost died. Today seemed like the perfect opportunity. I open my pouch of various nail polish colours. “Perfect Day” and I make eye contact. I pick it up and give it to Cece. “You want this colour?” I asked. “Omg, I’ve been looking for a gold shimmer,” she said in return.

I reached for the black bottle. Like I said, I’ve always felt my best in black.