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Asahi nervously looked down at his palm, intentionally avoiding eye contact with the now fading scars that littered his forearm as he counted the tablets in his hand. Three, six, nine, ten. He kept the eleventh pill out, putting it on his tongue before sliding the remainder back into their bottle. He reached for the half empty glass of water which sat amidst the other random items on his bedside table, such as his earphones, random scraps of paper, and other empty glasses which had once too been filled with water.
Taking a big gulp, he swallowed down the pill, shuddering as he felt it graze the inside of his throat. Diazepam. Take one tablet three times daily if required. The label on the prescription bottle read. He’d been prescribed them during his switch between antidepressant medications, a medication which he hadn’t actually been taking. How long had it been again? One, two months? Time didn’t really seem to hold meaning to him anymore.
He anxiously ran his hands through his hair, waiting for them to eventually take effect. He’d read up about people who were injected with the drug, and how for them it would cause a euphoric high. Asahi never felt a sense of euphoria though, only that his mind would become slightly less prone to thinking about the negative stuff.
He didn’t know how to tell his doctor that it wasn’t working. That he hadn’t begun taking the medication they had prescribed to him. How he’d just been relying on the diazepam they’d prescribed him for when he switched over to a new antidepressant when his old one had stopped working. They make my hands shake. He’d said when the doctor had suggested upping his dosage instead. Now that he was off of them though, his hands still shook. Maybe that was just a part of him he’d never realised until now. He couldn’t call up and make an appointment, he couldn’t face talking to the lady on the phone, asking for yet another meeting with his GP. He couldn’t face his GP, knowing she’d be disappointed when she found out he’d just retired the unused sheet of pills to the back of his drawer, left untouched since the day he got them.
He couldn’t tell anyone. As far as everyone else was aware, he was happy - and for a short while he thought he was too. That’s why he hadn’t started the new medication. That’s why he stopped answering his doctors calls. That’s why he never followed up on the phone number his GP had given him, urging to see the local mental health board to get a referral to a psychiatrist. Because he didn’t need them. He was fine. He was happy.
Maybe he just wanted to trick himself into thinking he was fine. Volleyball had been going really well for him recently, following Karasuno’s win streak earning them a spot in nationals. All his teammates were great - a real ragtag bunch, but still great. He had great friends, Daichi and Suga, who always waited outside of his classroom at lunch so they could eat together. There was Nishinoya too, who always pumped him full of praise whenever they practiced one on one together. Even the first years were great, especially Hinata, a raw bundle of energy who radiated the energy of the sun. Asahi wondered if Hinata ever felt like he did.
It was all too much for him, despite it not being enough. He felt overwhelmed at the thought of trying anything new, of changing his routine, about trying to better himself, yet he felt trapped in the same old cycle, a cycle in which he found himself unable to escape from. He needed change, yet he actively shied away from it. What the hell was wrong with him?
He was a disappointment. He constantly relied on others' support, but when he needed support the most, he pushed it away. Whenever someone else needed him, he was there in a heartbeat, because he liked helping people, but he couldn’t imagine how annoyed others must've felt when he’d turn to them. They always said it was fine, but Asahi knew it wasn’t. Who would want to listen to his problems that could be easily resolved if he actually just manned up and took care of them anyway?
His room was a mess. The contents of his schoolbag were strewn across the floor. A pile of unwashed clothing was slowly becoming a mountain in the corner of his room. His bed hadn’t been made in weeks, instead he just slept with his lumpy duvet wrapped around him. They probably needed a good wash too.
Why was he like this?
Sometimes he thought it would be better to just end it all.
But then he would end up crying, because he knew he’d hurt those around him.
But how was he supposed to stop hurting so bad?
Asahi didn’t really know.