Some days are good.
Some days are great.
Most days, I want to be done. The psychiatrist says that being so passive is ‘very common’… until it isn’t. Until it leads to an action that I won’t be able to take back. But not everyone crosses that line. Sometimes, people just stay passive. They live and go about their lives in the same way that I am now.
“Whatever you guys want to do.”
“No, really. I don’t care.”
These are like pick-up lines to my illness. Most people think that sometimes I am just sad, or tired or moody. And I feel cliché when I say it but, I am sick and tired of being sick and tired. I have been sick with one thing or another since I was a kid. I took it all in stride because I was counting on the day when it would all get so much better than it was then. Plus, everything else may be malfunctioning, but my brain was top-notch!
Yeah…so much for that.
I graduated high school with honors. I went to a community college so that I could live with my parents. But something was wrong. I started feeling it that first year at school. I was the first in my family to graduate high school and go straight on to college, and I wanted to make them all proud. I wanted to set a good example for my siblings and all of my younger family members. I wanted to reach that impressive goal that I had set for myself. But all I was really achieving was stress, stress and more stress. The stress would build up and my mind would wander.
I would contemplate the idea of death. Not suicide. I questioned how I would feel and react to being told I was going to die. Would I cry? Would I take it like a champ? (I liked to think that I was gonna take it like the level-headed, accepting girl I was.) I had never thought about it before because I was just a kid. I had all the time to worry about my life-clock’s countdown some other time. It was more of a deeper thought process than usual. The thoughts went from how I would respond to the news if I ever got them to not really caring. I really felt, and some times still feel, like if a car hit me or I got caught in a hold-up at my local gas station I wouldn’t mind. Like, it would be a bummer for sure, but I wouldn’t mind. I didn’t want to actively kill myself, but I felt very Darwin-like about it. (If I wasn’t smart enough to look both ways then that was my prerogative.) I confided in a friend of mine. (Who is still a good friend and an all-around good guy.) Let’s just go with Steve? Okay?
I was messaging Steve, and I was so lost in myself and how my thoughts were not natural, but I didn’t seem to care; that I didn’t think of him, his past or the way he would react. Admittedly, I really wanted a pity party from one of my few friends. But Steve. God. He went into a spiel about how selfish I was being and if I knew what it would do to the people I left behind.
Steve’s dad had committed suicide when he was a child.
I was such a bag-o-dicks.
But at that time, I didn’t see his ‘intervention’ as a helpful thing. I was… So. Fucking. Pissed. I wanted him to just shove his ‘mightier than thou bullshit’ back up the stink-hole it came from.
How fucking dare he?! Like really. I am sitting at my computer telling him that I feel like shit or I feel like nothing at all, and he tells me I am a coward? I was still there wasn’t I? I was talking to him wasn’t I? It made me so mad. So I grabbed ahold of that anger for all that I was worth before it too faded as all things were beginning to that year.
And, they all did.
Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t some automaton-robot-cyborg thing. I felt things, but it was and still is sometimes, like the difference between looking at someone with my glasses on or off. I know your hand is there, and I know how many fingers you are holding up. I don’t take them off and go completely, black-out blind okay?? The same goes for my emotions. They are there, under this film or utter disinterest and numbness. Sort of like when you poke your foot after it falls asleep ya know? You see it, but something is lost.
Anyway. He was really laying it on me about how despicable it was. To think about it, if ever there was a time to end it, it would have been then. But then Steve would feel guilty and I couldn’t do that to him. At some point, somewhere I cared about him and I knew that if I did anything then he would blame himself for the rest of his life. Despite the fact that I was the one on an emotional precipice, I was nothing if not knowledgeable. I couldn’t feel the guilt or hurt, but I knew that it would be there on an intellectual level.
Then, a few days later, I had skipped a class for one reason or another. (To avoid seeing Steve on campus probably.) And my mom called me saying that campus security had been to our house. I asked if she knew why they had been there, and she told be that they wouldn’t tell her, but I was to talk to the head of students’ something or other.
So, I went to her office and asked what was gong on.
“We had an RA inform us that you had told them some things that worried them. We were concerned when you didn’t show up to your morning class that you had committed or were in the process of committing suicide.”
My brain automatically went to the general direction of what-the-fuck-ville. I didn’t even think of Steve because we were friends and he would never betray my trust like that. But it was and he did.
I had, unintentionally, put Steve between a rock and a hard place.
Looking back, I know that he only meant the best. That what he did may have very well saved my life. That he was protecting me from danger like a great friend should because he loves me. He was keeping me from my greatest enemy and worst nightmare. He was trying to keep me from myself.
But young me did not see any of that. She saw red. Again? He took this way out of proportion! Mandatory reporter my ass!
I wanted his head on a spike in his mother’s yard.
They made me attend the school counselor and see a nurse about medication. Medication. Again. I was sick again, and this was worse than anything I had ever faced. This was in my head; my mind. The thing I cherished the most about myself. The only good part of me. I was rebroken and an intraveneos drip every six weeks wasn’t going to help this time.
I went the mandatory times and then a couple more. All the while, I tried to ignore Steve like the goddamn plague. This was his fault. He couldn’t keep his big old trap shut. Why was he such a good…bad friend. My fire was renewed every time I saw that big puppy dog because a part of me knew that he was doing the right thing.
But I didn’t want a friend that would tattle on me. I wanted a friend that would go down the rabbit hole with me. A person who would understand all of the fuckery that was my mind. I didn’t want to tell anyone about my issues though. So, I made myself a compromise; I would be that friend.. I would go down the rabbit hole alone.
Now, this isn’t the part where I try drugs and sleep with strangers to ‘find myself’. My rabbit hole is worse because it is bigger. It isn’t one that you jump into. This rabbit hole makes one believe that nothing is happening as they ease into the depths.
I am writing this from inside my own rabbit hole.