TransAmerican: Chapter A

Written by: Melody Reeder

I didn’t want to die, but I knew I couldn’t go on like this anymore.

The equation of life wasn’t adding up, and the fastest solution was to subtract myself.

I’ve heard some say suicide is the ultimate form of selfishness, but this isn’t true—at least, not in my case.

It was math.

Cold and calculated.

It was either subtract myself,

or change the equation altogether—

but change doesn’t come in a place like this.

White walls.

Locked doors.

The constant fluorescent light spilling in from the hallway.

The nurses and techs looking down their noses at you

behind a bad case of resting-bitch-face.

It’s clear this job is just a paycheck to most of them—

and you’re the monkey-wrench in their easy day at work.

The diagnosis came out of the therapist’s mouth like a hammer.

I tried to argue my case.

She insisted.

I went back to my room.

Laid in bed, listening to the lies in my head:

I’m never going to be good enough.

I’m never going to change.

I will always be a burden.

My kids will be better off without me.

This is the only way.

Fifteen minutes. That’s how often they check.

Door opens. Flashlight. Clipboard.

Crack the door.

Next room.

I waited for the room to light up the first time.

The nurse saw the lump in my bed.

She cracked the door.

The room went dim.

That’s when I moved.

The cabinet under the sink was blocked by a thick,

solid piece of plexiglass,

caulked into place—allegedly tamper-proof.

“You’re safe here,” they always say.

But I’ve been trained to look for weaknesses.

In people.

In systems.

In plastic.

The bottom-left corner bowed ever so slightly from its silicone fixture.

A fault line, invisible to most.

But I am not most.

I pressed my heel into the corner—hard.

There was a satisfying crack,

like the plexy had agreed to participate in my plan.

Back to bed.

Wait for the next check.

A ritual forming.

A rhythm, deadly in its precision.

I only had one shot at this.

Light. Glance. Gone.

Back to the sink.

The piece was waiting for me,

hanging like a question waiting to be answered.

I broke it the rest of the way off.

It was dull.

Just my luck.

Thick plastic.

Soft edges.

Blunt.

Safe.

No burrs.

What a shame.

Back to bed.

Light. Glance. Gone.

This was it.

It was too dull.

But the corner may be sharp enough.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

These are desperate times.

I held it in my hands.

The end was near.

There was only one way out of hell.

I just had to try harder.

I just had to get deep enough.

The rest you can already imagine.

The blood.

Rocking back and forth.

The tears.

The rage.

Screaming at a God I no longer believe in.

But there was something I didn’t know then:

It wasn’t really the vein I was trying to reach.

It was myself.

Buried somewhere deep beneath the skin,

the shame, and twenty-eight years of running away from myself.

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