This is an excerpt from a larger story that I have yet to write. It really doesn’t have a title yet. I’ll be releasing a few excerpts here and there, not in chronological order, but they are all part of my depression story.
I was thinking of calling it “A Depressing Story.”
I could feel her eyes on the back of my head.
“What the hell happened back there?”
My anger abolished any rational thought that could have been. My mind swam in a sea of booze. the very crevices lacking serotonin filled with a different chemical: ethanol.
“I didn’t come out to talk. I came out to drink and have a good time. They were all talking about bullshit. School, goals, life. We weren’t smoking weed, we were drinking. I’m trying to get happy. Not be reminded of all that shit.”
“Jess, there’s nothing wrong with people talking. Feel the room. You were so rude in there.”
“I don’t care, they were bumming me out.”
“Are you okay?”
Am I okay? I didn’t know how to answer that. I was not okay, but I did not know why. I was scared. Is scared still considered okay?
Her disapproving head shift told me that she didn’t believe it. She was right not to. I turned my body around to face her in the seat behind me.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m alive, but I don’t feel like I’m living at all. I have Joseph but I have no confidence in him or us. I set goals and when I reach them to try to fill myself up I end up realizing I never will because it’s a bottomless pit and I’ll never feel satisfied. I don’t like myself. I don’t like who I was or am. I don’t like sleeping or being awake or going to school. I don’t like anything.”
The bus announcement cut through my confession. I turned forward to stare out the window. We weren’t too far from our apartment. Just a few more stops without revealing too much. That is all I have to do. She doesn’t have to know anything else. We can stay in this bliss of a friendship and never have to dive into the deep end.
“I want to kill myself.”
Minutes upon minutes upon minutes of silence. There is nothing I can do but sit with my words. I don’t dare look back. I don’t dare.
“How could you say that?”
Her voice broke. It broke. I had never heard her voice break before. Roxy was the hero. Never the victim. Never the one who needed comfort. Nothing like me. And yet, here she was. Being human.
“I’m sorry, I don’t really know how to explain myself any better than that.”
The sounds of her sniffling and low cries all the way to our apartment will haunt me for the rest of my life, which would have been significantly shorter had she not stuck with me through it all.
You see, at this point I had only scratched the surface of the deepest bout of my life. My troubles – despite my feeling that they were as troublesome as could be – were about to get much, much worse.
We said nothing as we climbed the staircase. Nothing as we opened the front door. Nothing as we went in different directions to our rooms. Different directions in thoughts. Nothing as we closed our doors.