Personal Narrative: Drowning

Drowning is said to be the most euphoric way to die. How could anyone know what dying possibly feels like? I am constantly drowning. I always seem to be drowning. Drowning is when water fills the lungs, and after they are completely filled they collapse. What could I mean by saying I’m constantly drowning? In my opinion, being overwhelmed with the pressure of society to be a “perfect”, “well rounded” person inflicts the same feeling as drowning. It’s like I’m being forced underwater, and every time I do something wrong, my lungs fill with water. It’s common for me to mess up. I’ve never been the perfect student, perfect friend, perfect girlfriend, or perfect daughter. I always seem to mess up. I grew up with depression and anxiety, two things

Every memory of that day had been permanently etched into my mind. I woke up like I usually did every morning. I forced myself to get out of bed, and sat up with a groan. I never wanted to get up because sleep was my only escape. I glanced around my room. It looked as if a tornado had ripped through my room. My posters along my paint-chipped walls were hanging by a single tack, clothes and random paper littered my floor, along with a few miscellaneous items. With all the responsibility and pressure I was drowning in, cleaning my room had not been at the top of my priorities. I nudged my way out of bed, and made my way downstairs. My dad was glaring at me over a cup of coffee. The smell of the grounds and the creamy sweetener tickled my

I did as told right away. He tossed onto the table a pack. I automatically could tell by the glistening copper casing what it was. I sat quietly and stared at my hands. The little container held inside three silver, shining blades and a red BIC lighter. “Pull up your sleeves, right now!” His voice raised to a tone that made me jump. I refused. He walked swiftly towards me and forced my sleeves out. I grimaced in pain. Tears stung the brims of my eyes as I looked over the various tiny red lines and purplish blisters that made an abstract picture along my forearm. I couldn’t look him in the eye. “Why? What did I do to deserve a daughter like you? Why can’t you just be normal? First the drinking and drugs, then your grades plummeted downhill, and now this? I thought you had moved past all this and were getting better. I thought the doctors and your therapist were helping?” I could tell by the slight frown on his face that he was disappointed in me. “This needs to stop.” He shouted at me. I stood up and started walking towards the front door. “Get back here!” He yelled at