I open my window to cool down my room again, and someone must be cooking. All I can smell is barbecue chicken on the grill. That with the slight breeze that is coming in plus the cool, but not cold temperature reminds me of the beach.
Whenever its later at night, just when the sun is beginning to completely die out and my uncle comes in with his barbecue chicken, most of us dead from the 8 hour drive and unpacking but excited to be with the whole family.
How my gram would be in her pink hoodie and slippers, my little cousins already have taken a bath, me fighting my brother over chips as he crunches them on my plate, my mom the last one to sit down because of her helping everyone else.
There I never felt alone. Now after 10 years I won’tbe participating because of one fucking thing: My depression.
I will guarantee kill myself on the beach at night time. I will get in one of my stupors where I can’t talk and barely can breathe and pace around aimlessly lost for any meanig left in the shell of myself. I will so confused death will be a warm welcome.
For my own safety, for my family, I won’t be going.
Now I’m going to close my window. Rather be sweating then crying.