Well, shit. I’m still alive.
I squeeze my eyes tighter to block out the intrusive light, but the afternoon sun is persistent. I’ve been in and out of sleep for who knows how long, but it seems that I’m truly awake now. With a moan, I stretch out my arms, cringing at the subsequent thump. It seems the half-empty box of Wagon Wheels has hit the floor. Or was it the Ho-Hos?
I try to turn over and bury my face in the pillows, but I inadvertently sweep a pile of empty wrappers under my face instead. Several crumbs land in my eyes as I try to push them away.
Fucking hell. Guess I’d better get up or something.
Just as I’m contemplating whether I should go to the bathroom or try to hold it, my phone rings. I half-heartedly search through the trash, but by the time I do, it’s gone to voicemail.
It’s my mother. Again. With a wince, I glance at the time, then sigh. Of course, she’s been waiting at the restaurant for more than thirty minutes but has only just decided to call. Why couldn’t she have given me a chirpy wake-up call like usual? Why, today of all days, did she decide to listen to me and treat me like an adult?
I briefly think about calling her back, but anything other than going back to sleep makes me feel so heavy I can barely breathe. Deciding the bathroom can wait, I reach for my bedside table. In the drawer are the sleeping pills I should have taken at a reasonable time last night so that I could have gone to bed at a reasonable hour and woken up on time for this lunch with mom. But no, I was too busy trying to ruin my life, as always.
Knowing I’m about to destroy any hope for a respectable sleep schedule for the next few days, I shake a pill into my hand, then another. I knock them back, then stare at the bottle. I’ve got almost three weeks’ worth in there still. Nineteen capsules promising me restful sleep and an end to these nightmares and a life worth living. But after more than a week, I feel just as bad as ever. Worse, even, because I feel so guilty that these don’t seem to be working. I keep going back to my doctor with the same problem, and he keeps trying to help, but what can he do if I’m “not compliant” with my meds? What can anyone do?
What can I do?
It’s been so long. I’ve tried so many things, I could probably write my own self-help book. It’s the natural progression in my so-called career. I’m sure I could become a best-selling author withouth even trying.
But no, the self-destruction continues. My life spirals down a dark path that I can’t seem to escape. Despite the unbearable pain I’m in every day, I can’t make myself stay on track to get better.
It feels like I’m trudging through each day waiting to die.
I dump all the pills onto my bed, and count them again, slowly. They glisten in the afternoon sun, so innocuous. These are meant to help me get my goddamn life back together, but they aren’t working. Nothing is working. No one can help me, and I’ve gotten to the point where not many people care anymore. I’m sure my mom will be done with me, after today. This is the third time I’ve stood her up this month. She’d be crazy to keep putting herself through that. I know it hurts her to see the dimness in my eyes, the desperation in my unwashed hair. The despair in my three-day-old clothes. I can’t keep seeing the look on her face that she tries to cover up with determined optimism. She’s as persistent as the afternoon sun shining through my window, reminding me that I don’t measure up, yet again.
For the first time in weeks, a tear drops onto my cheek. Fuck. I wipe it away and stare at it. It’s been so long since I’ve cried that I half-believed I couldn’t anymore. But as I stare at those pills, my eyes start to burn for real. I can’t stop several more tears from falling.
“Stop it. You don’t get to cry anymore. You got yourself here. You don’t get to cry.”
Taking in a shuddering breath, I swipe my hand across my face. Flipping onto my back, I stare at the ceiling, considering my worthless life as I absently finger those nineteen pills.
At first, I made a living out of trying to help people in desperate situations. I thought I knew what I was talking about when I told them that they had a lot to live for. I told them that even if they didn’t realize it, there were people who loved them, who would miss them, and that they owed it to themselves to give life a fair shot.
What a dumbass I was.
I try to think about my mother, but the image elicits no positive emotion. I know she cares about me. She’s the only person still around to witness the devastation of my existence. But thinking about her doesn’t make me want to live. It’s mortification that rises up in me, choking me.
What did I know, way back then? Why did I believe that any amount of compassion could flow from my end of the phone to someone else’s? Why did I think I could make them believe they had anything to offer the world? Why did I ever believe I could make a difference?
Obviously, some people simply won’t be helped. I just never knew that I would end up being one of them.
One.
Vaguely, I feel a twinge of embarrassment at the state of my apartment. Trash and half-eaten food litter the place, most of it concentrated around me in the bed. Once upon a time, I used to harp on Charlotte to clean up after herself, insisting that a tidy space means a tidy mind. What a joke.
Two.
Underneath the smell of old food is the stench of my own body. When was the last time I took a shower, anyway? The odour would have made me gag any other day, but today, it’s just more proof that I’m too far gone.
Three.
I think I hear the sound of the garbage truck coming up the alley behind my building. I should have taken the trash out yesterday. I should have been more organized.
Four.
I should have done more, tried harder to catch this thing early before it spiralled out of control. How different would my life be if I’d tried to stick with my counselling and medications when I was a teenager? I had so much going for me other than my fucked-up head.
Five.
I had so many dreams of making the world a better place. Everyone thought I was a success story, proof that there is hope for survivors like me. I was mentoring kids at my school, giving speeches at assemblies. Getting a commendation from the mayor.
Six.
Reach out, I kept saying. No one can help you if they don’t know what’s wrong. If you share, you can get the load off your chest, and breathe better. It’s the first step to feeling better. The first step to being better.
I reach for another capsule. Seven.
At the fundraising dinner I organized during my freshman year of college, I was so astonished at all the donations that came in. It was enough to hire two full-time psychologists to bring my vision to life. As an eighteen-year-old kid, I had never seen so much money before. I didn’t realize it was possible to get so many people to support my dream.
Eight.
People kept asking me if I was okay, saying I should slow down if I didn’t want to burn out. But I had to be okay. I was the success story, after all. I was the one who had beat this disease, the one everyone looked up to. I was the one who didn’t fall apart anymore.
Nine.
No one even thought to look for me as I cried in the staff washroom after accepting my diploma. Everyone thought I was with someone else, swarmed by grateful and thriving alumnae of my wildly successful program. I was so good at fixing my makeup by then that no one even looked twice when I finally slipped back into the crowd.
Ten.
A year into my graduate studies, my little distress line operation moved into an official office. It only had space for three of us, but we finally had an official HQ. We coordinated dozens of volunteers and a handful of paid counsellors.
Eleven.
At a conference several cities away, I stopped in at a walk-in clinic and allowed myself to admit that I wasn’t sleeping well. I forced myself not to fidget with the long sleeves I now had to wear all the time, and the doctor gave me an emergency prescription without any trouble.
Twelve.
I could admit that I felt pretty good at the office and at school. Chatting with my colleagues made me feel like a productive member of society. But always, at the end of the day, I would go home and be alone. For awhile, I convinced myself that I liked having time to myself to unwind. Even if all I wanted was to unload the burden of harrowing stories. I couldn’t anyway. Those were privileged conversations.
Thirteen.
At my masters graduation, I was seated with the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Charlotte was ethereal, hauntingly fragile. I thought I saw a kindred spirit in her. It was only a few months before we moved in together. I thought if I could keep her together, I would be able to fix myself.
Fourteen.
It’s not like we ever actually fought. At first, she seemed better with my little tips and tricks, trying to show her that even she wasn’t beyond help. Of course, we’d seen each other’s scars by now. She had cigarette burns and track marks. I had vertical lines along my arms. We cried together. We laughed together. I helped her with her therapy homework and made sure she stuck with the strategies she’d been prescribed.
Fifteen.
I pause, because nothing seems to be happening. Wow. I don’t even really feel anything right now. I thought for sure I would start to drift off or something. Maybe I’m becoming tolerant, and that’s why these haven’t been working. I shrug.
Oh well. Sixteen.
Charlotte started staying later and later at her own office. It seemed that there was an event every other week that she had to stay late to plan. Seminars and conferences and lectures. I told her I was proud of her, even as I started taking more and more sick days. I was just so tired. I didn’t know how she could do it all.
Could I ever be good enough for her again?
Seventeen.
When I lift my hand, it feels like a hunk of lead. I push through the feeling to search the bed for another capsule. When I can’t find it, I sit up slightly, and the whole room tilts several times. Geez. Took long enough.
Underneath the dizziness is the smallest spark of fatigue. Maybe all I need is a good long sleep to reset my system. Maybe there is a chance for me if I can just rest long enough. Tomorrow, I can pack a bag. I can go to go to her. Beg for her forgiveness. Maybe I can get her back. I have to.
Ah, there it is. Eighteen.
Maybe I can give this whole life thing one more try, right? I can give myself a bit more time, and then pull myself together. Surely if I talk to the board, I can have a role at my foundation again. It is mine, after all. Just as soon as I convince Charlotte that I’m okay again. She’ll let me back in, if I can prove to her that I’ve changed. I’ve just got to get some sleep.
Nineteen.
Charlotte, I try to say, not quite sure where my tongue or lips are. But it doesn’t matter. Either way, I know I can’t live like this anymore. Either way, I just can’t.
Lidi 