it wasn't the same.
they were huddled around the coffee table, trying to wash away the heaviness with some earl gray warmth sobbing and shaking and aching together. the whole room was darker than it had ever been, even with the curtains as open as i could possibly get them there wasn't enough light in a solar flare to diminish the shadows that were hanging off them all.
i pinched myself, tried to force out the tears myself. nothing. i think they all thought it didn't bother me, that i was okay with what happened. that made me mad cause it was the furthest from the truth. i wasn't okay, how dare they even suggest that. i'm not sure why i wasn't able to break, or why i felt so much inside and couldn't show an ounce on the outside. but in some way, it was probably a good thing, cause i probably would have completely cracked and dissolved into the ground.
oh. but i was good at rage.
i yelled and screamed at your parents that this was all their fault. they told you that your anxiety wasn't real, that it was just laziness, and that you didn't need a counselor anymore. they made you lock your door in your bedroom. and that door was closer to a coffin lid than they knew.
they told you in was all in your head, that it wasn't real, that the lady who would talk you down and out of doing yourself in was a waste of time, and there were better places their money could be going. better places than keeping their god damned son alive.