Ginger was a senior in high school the first time she wanted to kill herself. She didn’t try it, though: she just stared at her wrist, thinking that it would be very easy to put an end to her pain. She was a smart girl and she always felt she didn’t fit.
By that time, she even thought it was cool, since so many artists and writers used to describe the very same feeling in their lives. Truly, she didn’t want to be like the people around her. She wanted to be different, and not fitting in could still be seen as positive from her point of view.
As a teenager, she thought she’d still have some crisis to go through, and thinking of suicide was part of it. In the end, it would be just fine and she would find her place in the world.
Some years went by: she found and lost many lovers and friends, and it always seemed to hurt more in her than in others, any others. She didn’t notice it at first, since some exaggeration is expected in adolescence. But even after losing the sixth or seventh boyfriend, she would still feel devastated as it happened. She always recovered after some time, but as she experienced such situations over and over, it became more and more difficult to keep the faith and feel good again.
She was supposed to learn from life, but she couldn’t. Each failure would just make her feel more and more out of place. She started considering suicide again. She had no pleasure in anything anymore: blue skies, green trees, wavy sea, singing birds. No pleasure in working, no pleasure in talking, no pleasure in going out. Nothing seemed to make sense and she started wondering why she existed.
She thought of crying for help. Thought of her family, but didn’t think they were ready to face such a situation. She would be seen as a loser and her parents would blame themselves. Following a possibly hard treatment that maybe some people would have to find out about would be a burden and a shame for her parents. She always had everything she wanted; life gave her all the opportunities and she wasn’t supposed to be a loser. Something went very wrong and she didn’t know what it was, when, why.
Maybe she just had to keep herself busy, as dad her once said, years ago. “Maybe I deserve it all, dumb creature that never knew how to extract the best out of life,” concluded Ginger, opting for self-punishment. And she decided to keep pretending that she was fine, hoping someday she would be able to put her trust in someone who could help her and understand her. She would resist as long as she could, fighting alone the ghost of depression and the daily thoughts of suicide, that were her only friends now.
Why do we have so many Gingers around us?