by Leti Haziraj
Today, I grabbed the shirt. The minutes I spent struggling to do it didn’t change my mind. Finally, with a spray of frustration and despair, I took one of my favorite shirts in the scent of rose petal deodorant. A cruel irony in there, the fragrance meant to freshen and uplift, now a cause of my darkest thoughts. I took myself to bed, the heavy scent in the air, mixing with the thoughts of the day. Before inhaling deep, I wondered what would happen. Would I open my eyes to a white space, soft clouds around me? Or would I find myself in a delivery room with a mother crying? Or perhaps there would be nothing at all. Just pitch black.
But when I opened my eyes, it wasn’t heaven or a mother’s hug. It was my bedroom, exactly as it had been before. The sheets were half off the bed. Sofi, my loyal companion, the ted I have had for a while now, still lying there, her big, questioning eyes silently asking what she had just witnessed. The light was still on, creating an unforgiving glow over everything, and the curtains remained drawn, keeping the world the same.
I got up, with the weight of a failed attempt, and walked to the living room. A mix of songs I had forgotten I’d turned on was playing in the background. Melodies that once brought comfort now felt like cruel reminders of the life I hadn’t left behind. I poured myself some cereal and added milk, the same ritual I had planned to skip forever. The crunch of each bite was almost unbearable, a reminder that I was still here, still part of this world.
I showered, hoping the hot water would wash away the shame, the guilt, the confusion. But as the water was going down my skin, all I could think about was the surreal feeling of being awake, of having to face another day. The pain that had consumed me just an hour ago seemed to have vanished, leaving behind an empty space. My mother didn’t cry because she had nearly lost her child. My sisters didn’t know they’d almost been forced to say, “We used to have another sister.” My boyfriend didn’t realize that our plans for a beautiful life together had rolled on the edge. No one knew a thing, so I pretended I didn’t either.
It has been two hours since that happened. I keep telling myself, “What if it does get better?” Those words feel like a lifeline, something to stay with, when everything else feels too heavy. What if it was a sign? What if the younger me, the one who still had hopes and dreams, didn’t want to go yet? Maybe she wanted one more chocolate bar, one more chance to see the sunrise. I owe it to her to try one more time.
Because no child should have to grow up thinking their life doesn’t matter. To me from just some hours ago, I’m sorry I made you believe that your only option was to disappear, that the scent of rose petals was your final goodbye.
I am trying to live with the idea it will never get better, not all at once, but what if it does?
© Leti Haziraj 2024-08-26