My kids woke me up this morning, and while I could have done without them jumping on me, I loved how excited they were to tell me happy birthday.
Kaylee immediately started bringing me toys she didn’t play with anymore as gifts. When I started to get dressed, Erik tossed me a brand new shirt that said, “Hold on, let me overthink this.” Very me.
Evan was so excited to give me the rest of my gifts that he asked Erik, “Can we just give her the other two shirts now?,” and gave away what my presents were.
Tonight, we are going out for dinner where they serve my absolute favorite soup, and tomorrow, we are going bowling. But better than any of it is how loved I feel from my little family. I am truly lucky.
Mental illness changed my life and the way I look at suffering. It turned me into my absolute worst self, someone I detested. More than that, it was the journey that led me towards that depression.
For years, I struggled, fought, cried, and crawled to make sure my family had a secure future. I stopped caring about my appearance, I stopped caring about our apartment, and I stopped caring about going out. I became more secluded over the years until I had completely locked myself away from everyone. The only thing that kept me going was my kids.
When I started having memory problems during the pandemic, I finally reached out to a therapist for the first time. I told him everything I could think of from the get-go. All I wanted was to get better. Every appointment was over the phone. I would set anywhere from 10-15 alarms, and I would still forget about every appointment.
My therapist told me that if I missed another one, he would cancel our sessions. I begged him to call me instead. I explained how difficult it had been to remember much of anything. He told me, “If you can’t remember, we’ll give the time to someone who cares enough to remember.”
When he finally let me go, it felt as if I would never get better. It became harder to even hold on. The image of my kids wondering why their Mom didn’t love them enough to stay popped into my head. So I kept trying.
One day, I sat down and tried to sort it all out. Why am I this way? When was the last time I was happy? How much of this is from abuse, neglect, or being overworked?
The words started spitting from me, writing out every event happy or sad. Little by little, I began remembering strength I once had and what had covered it up.
I came to realize how horrible the support networks for mental illness are. Not to mention how impatient everyone was for my recovery. As if coming back from anything so horrible could happen in mear days. Or weeks. Or even years.
I’m still trying, even now. Recovery is day by day. Little by little. But I can feel it happening, and I can see it in the eyes of my children.
You talk about how far I’ve gone, I dont clean like I used to, I dont cook like I used to. I don’t even play or love like I used to. But why is how far I’ve fallen all you can see?
Why do you always talk about these things like they just happened overnight? Why do you complain about me as if this weren’t the result of something larger? Is there truly something wrong with me? Do I not deserve the same love and patience?
I’m cleaning more now, see? Why haven’t you noticed? Im playing with the kids, cooking their favorite meals, and shopping. Will it never be enough?
I can feel your families eyes on me, its hard not to notice your sisters rolling their eyes. Was it something I said? Or something you told them?
I can feel the shackles trying to form, fastening themselves out of paranoia and low self-worth. I feel desperate, I want them to like me. I want them to see that I’m improving, so I talk about all the things I got done this week, proudly boasting that I cleaned the living room and about all the fancy dinners. As if it’s anything to brag about at all. The looks on their faces tell me its not.
I hesitate when silence breaks the conversation and smile when my niece giggles. I ask to hold her.
“She’s a little grumpy today,” your sister says and gives her to your Mom a few moments later. Do they think I don’t notice?
“You know, I’m home all the time these days. I could help watch her anytime,” I keep trying.
“Oh, yeah,” she says, but the look on her face says it won’t happen in a million years.
When will it stop being about how far I’ve fallen? How much have you complained about me? Why can’t they see this didn’t just happen, I didn’t just break. I was broken. And still, I’m trying. I AM getting better. Instead of talking about my struggles, why can’t you support me and talk about my triumphs?
I’m sorry, it takes me a while to process these things. I write about this small blip even as it happened months ago. I never knew what it meant to me.
I couldn’t do it all on my own anymore. I had been overworked for nearly nine years, running on the most bare minimum of sleep before rushing to work.
Make the kids breakfast as quickly as possible, hop on the computer for work, try to keep the kids quiet so I didn’t get in trouble again, only fifteen minutes to make lunch for everyone, back to work, get off in time to put the kids down for bed, two hours later they are finally down, still haven’t had dinner but need to clean.
“Erik, could you please help me catch the place up a bit?”
“I already made dinner, and I need to study.”
“Oh, okay, right.” Why can’t anyone just clean up after themselves? When I make lunch, I put everything away, I throw away the trash, I rinse off the dishes. All while I wait for it to finish cooking so it takes no extra time, what was so hard about that?
I glance in on Erik. Rather than studying, I find him playing State of Survival. Frustration surged through me. My entire day was non-stop stress piling up on itself day after day after day, yet I never got help when I asked for it. “His day is stressful too,” I tried pushing the resentment down.
Each day was a copy of the last. Wake up, work, fight with kids to be quiet, clean, and get only a few hours of sleep. “At least you’re keeping up better than before,” I told myself.
Working from home was supposed to help my back pain, no more heavy lifting from my server days. But as it turns out, working in an office chair for hours on end only puts more pressure on your spine.
I thought I was finally doing better. But the pain was coming back, and it was becoming difficult to clean again. Again and again, they promise that things will get better. “When we move to Chicago, you won’t have to work so much. Carrie and Saul will offer more support with the kids than your parents have, working from home will be good for you,” but nothing ever changes. It’s the same pain, the same stress, the same hectic life in a different box.
I decided to eat something before cleaning this time, I didn’t have time to make lunch for both myself and the kids. I sit there, staring at another disgusting mess, knowing I’ll do this all again the next day. And the day after. And the days, weeks, years after that. And a weight decends upon me and those all too familiar thoughts of suicide awaken again.
“Erik, do you think you could help me with the cleaning tonight? I’m just…so tired.”
“I’m sorry, love, I have a quiz in two days. I need to study more.” He turns off the game on his tablet and carries it into our bedroom.
Maybe just one day off would be okay, I tell myself. I sit down and relax for the first time in a few weeks, watching anime.
But the next day, it’s even harder to motivate myself. The mess is larger, and Erik still can’t help. I do my best, but the pressure is still building. The feeling that things will never change starts to hook its claws in me.
That night, I stared at the mess. All I wanted to do was sleep, but the mess was there, forcing its guilt on me. I don’t want to do it. What I want to do doesn’t matter. You have to take care of the kids. Things will get better eventually. No, they won’t. You’ve been telling yourself that for nine years now. Has it ever gotten better? You’ll be doing this for the rest of your life. You could ask for help. No one will ever help you, you know that. You will be ignored.
Tears begin flooding down my cheeks, dripping down onto my T-shirt. Hearing my sobbing, Erik turned away from his tablet to look at me. “What’s wrong?!” he asked earnestly, getting up from his chair to sit beside me.
“I can’t do this anymore. Nothing ever changes. We never go anywhere or do anything. All I do is work, clean, and fight with the kids. I never have any fun, I never do what I want. And worst of all, I’m failing at all of it. I know I’ve complained about my Mom before, but she at least gave me a clean home to live in. She made sure I was fed, that I went outside to play. I can’t do any of those things. I can’t even bring myself to clean this stupid kitchen anymore,” it all exploded from me in a flurry of words. I was uniquely aware of snot dripping down over my lips, making me feel even more disgusting.
Erik pulled me into his chest and held me close. “I know,” he whispered, “just try to remember I only have one year left. It won’t be this way for you for much longer. The next chapter of our lives will be all about you.”
Rage exploded from me, “That’s a lie! I’ll have as little choice in what I do then as I do now! Every step of the way you tell me, ‘it will be easier when…’ But that never comes! It didn’t get easier when we moved to Chicago. Instead, I lost all of my friends, all of my family, and I became completely secluded. It didn’t get easier when I stepped down from management to be a server. Just look at me, Erik! I can’t even stand for more than five minutes at a time anymore without being in pain! I look like I’ve been aged thirty years, not ten! Even now, I’m struggling just as much as I always have. And what’s supposed to be different after you graduate? I can do what I want? How? Who is going to take care of the kids while you’re at work? Are you going to call out sick when the kids are ill so I can go to school like I had to all these years? Are you going to keep up on the cleaning so I can study? Or when I say go to college, do you assume it’s just to learn something neat? Not for a careet like you? Do you honestly think that you could do what I’ve been doing this whole time? I didn’t think so!” My eyes widened with shock as I finished, I hadn’t realized how much resentment had piled up within me.
“I know this has been hard. All I can do is promise that what comes next will be about you. And that things will get easier. You won’t have to do anything you dont want to,” Erik said gently.
Hysterical laughter burst from so deep down I barely recognized it was coming from me. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. You dont have to do anything you don’t want to. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.
I fell silent. I was vaguely aware that Erik was saying something. Those words, those awful, wonderful words kept circulating as if I had never even heard of such a marvelous concept. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.
Erik shook me gently. He was saying something. But I could no longer hear him. Because if I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to then… I could do what I wanted to do for so very long.
We were as poor as it gets. Our survival depended largely on government assistance and anything I could muster up in tips as a waitress. Erik had school during the week, so I had to be there to take care of the kids. So, instead, I worked longer shifts on the weekends.
Move faster, I need to take bigger sections. Make them laugh. If they laugh, they will give you a bigger tip. Not fast enough, you can’t make your customers wait. Volunteer to stay later, as late as you can. Even if it means working twenty hours straight, give it your all.
This is all you’re worth, all you can give, all you can do. So do better. The kids need clothes. They need school supplies. They deserve the world at their feet, so make it happen. Even if it breaks you.
I climbed three stories to our apartment late at night. I snuck in, peering into the twins’ bedroom. Evan laid on the top bunk, snoaring loudly. Kaylee slept quietly, her bottom lifted above her head. I sighed with relief and silently closed the door. I collapsed in bed next to Erik, not even bothering to take off my apron. “I made eight hundred dollars today,” I smiled meekly.
“Wow, that’s great. Maybe we can actually pay off some of these past due bills,” Erik said, rolling over to hold me.
“Maybe we can afford to do something fun next week? I feel like all I do is work lately.”
“I’m sorry, love, but even with everything you made, we are still completely broke.”
Harder, I need to work harder. This can’t be my kids’ lives.
“If anyone wants me to do their sidework, I’ll do it for twenty dollars!”
More, it still isn’t enough. Work the overnight shifts and carry more on every tray. You’re strong. Use that to your advantage.
“Lovey, I made twelve hundred today! Maybe we could all go out and do something next week as a family?”
“I’m sorry, love, but we are three months behind on our power bill and two on the internet. We won’t have anything left once I pay those off with rent.”
Why can’t you just do this for them? Why can’t you provide for them in the way they deserve? You need to do better. You can’t let their lives be this mundane.
My feet begin to hurt, and my back begins to crumple. Ignore it. It’s only been a year of this. You can keep going. You can give them a better life.
I stumble into our apartment, trash has steadily begun to build up along the floors, and dishes surround the sink. This is pathetic. You’re failing them.
Two years pass, and I can no longer make it up the stairs on my own. When I walk, I walk on the very sides of my feet, wading through garbage.
You’re so pathetic, it would be better if the state just took the kids. Maybethen… they would have a good life.
No, I can’t give up. I have to keep going.
“Mama, can we go to the park?” Kaylee asks.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Mommy can’t walk today, and Daddy has the car.”
“Hey,” Erik says when he comes home, “Im going out for sushi with a couple of my classmates on Friday, so I’ll be out late.”
“Oh, that sounds fun! Can we come with you?” I ask.
“Sorry, it’s not really the kind of thing I would want to bring the kids to.”
“Oh, right. Of course. Well, I hope you have lots of fun,” I try to make my smile look genuine.
Three years pass, I can no longer stand up straight without immense pain and begin to walk with a hunch below my neck. The apartment only gets messier and messier. The doctors tell me that if this continues, I’ll find myself in a wheelchair.
I can’t just stop working. My family would have nothing. If I died right now, Erik’s family would step in. They wouldn’t let him live like this. They would all be better off if I just disappeared. But…if I did…would the kids blame themselves?
I get frustrated and clean the entire apartment in one night. After all, sleepless nights were something I was more than used to. Besides, it wasn’t the first time I’d spent all night cleaning. I couldn’t just let the kids grow up in that dump.
When I’m finally done, I’m kneeling at the sink finishing the last couple of dishes. Unable to walk any further, my legs and knees became bruised and battered as I crawled my way through the apartment. My legs couldn’t take it anymore, so I decided to leave the last few dishes for later.
I ran into Erik on my way to bed, “Erik, can you just help with the dishes? It’s the only thing I couldn’t finish. I just…can’t.”
“Yeah, okay, I’ll do it later,” he says.
“Right… okay,” it wasn’t the first time I’d heard that.
When I wake up for work three hours later, I notice the dishes are still piled up. Panic rises into my throat. I had no time to do them. I had to get to work. And when I got home there would be even more. And Erik would have trash all around his chair. And the kids will have made a mess that went completely ignored. And I’ll barely be able to move, but everyone will blame me if it’s not done. They’ll treat me like a child, like I’m the reason Erik is failing his classes. Like I’m…useless.
I can’t breath. Tears stream down my face. I rush out the door, hiding myself from Erik. Calm down, he said he would help this time.
When I get home, I crawl my way up the stairs. With every step, I was positive my feet would finally break. I slowly opened the door, carefully peering around the corner. Everything is as I predicted. The trash had gotten full, so no one took it out. Instead, there was trash all around it, on the floor and boxes of opened packages and mail surrounded Erik’s desk. Someone had spilled cereal, and it remained, dripping from the counter onto the floor. Clothes had been taken out of the laundry basket and thrown down the entire stretch of the hallway. In addition to the dishes from last night, there were now more. Some were still full of food and thrown in the sink.
My body trembled, the aches and pains from the long night of cleaning and the following ten hours running at work raged throughout me. It would take hours to clean this all up. Perhaps another all-nighter.
I noticed the knife block to the side of the sink. Inside, I imagine the glimmering sharp blades. It would be so easy to take one. No one had even noticed I was home.
I imagined the blade running down the length of my wrist, the pleasurable sting of pain distracting me from the aches that far exceeded it. I imagined my body growing cold as I became more and more sleepy. For years, all I wanted was sleep. Now, I would never have to wake up again. It would feel like a sweet release. I pictured it so vividly I could almost feel it.
“Mommy, why are you crying?” Kaylee was looking at me from the living room, and I quickly realized tears were streaming down my cheeks.
“Oh, Mommy just had a long day,” I tell her. I pick her up and hold her close, and all together, I begin to sob. I could never feel that release. I could never hurt my kids that way. Not like my Dad had hurt me. I would remain trapped, so they would never have to wonder why I didn’t love them enough to stay.
“What’s wrong?” Erik asks, a small frown curling his lips.
Does he really not know? “Nothing, just hurting a lot today,” I sob, shaking. I was far too tired to start an argument.
Erik sat down next to me to hold me close, “How about we go out and do something fun next week? Don’t worry about the money. What kinds of things would you like to do?”
Late at night, while the world slept, I would find myself drowning in self laothing, pain, and the sweet release death would bring. It was as if an anvil had been placed on my heart, dragging me down, burying me underneath its massive weight.
I would contemplate what it would be like, what I would do if I did kill myself. I imagined a gun, and the moment the bullet pierced my skull. I saw it so clearly I could almost feel it. And it felt blissful. It felt like freedom.
Thinking of my kids helped stay my hand. I knew they would be better off without me. I knew they would lead happy lives. But, they still saw me as their Mom. They didn’t realize what a burden I really was. To them, it would be as if I had abandoned them, given up on them. They would wonder why they weren’t enough to live for. I could not let them live with that guilt.
It was getting harder to rationalize, even if the kids didn’t realize the fact remained; they would be better off without me. So wasn’t it better to just get it over with? No, I couldn’t do anything that would hurt them. Not in any way.
I decided to reach out to a suicide hot line and found that they had an online chat. Perfect, this way no one would hear me.
“Please help me, I don’t know what to do. All I can think about is killing myself. I’m so tired, I’m in so much pain, I just want it all to stop. I can’t take it anymore.”
“Hello,” they responded, “it sounds like you’re going through a rough time. Can you tell me more about it?”
“Yes, I’ve been trying to get my husband through school. To do so, I’ve been working until four in the morning and waking up with our twins at six. I also work in the restaurant industry, so there is a lot of heavy lifting involved. My back and feet hurt all the time, and I don’t even have time to see a doctor. I just need… time.”
They took a moment, little dots showing up to tell me they were still typing. “That does sound hard. It sounds like you’ve really been burning the candle at both ends. When you say you need time, what do you mean?”
“I need time for myself, time for my kids, time to clean our apartment so it’s not complete trash all the time, I need time away from work so I can rest and recover, but I can’t have any of that. I don’t have the option to quit my job or even to take the time off for myself. I’m trapped.” I was so overwhelmed just talking about it, so consumed in grief, frustration, and anger that I was shaking as I typed. Tears dripping onto the screen of my phone.
“I see what you’re saying, ” they replied, “isn’t there anyone who can help you so you can take the time off you need?”
“No,” I said, “we don’t have anyone like that. I’m the one who provides for our family so my husband can go to school. I don’t get vacation days at my job, so any time I do take off is unpaid. Aren’t there any programs that can help me? Anything at all? Maybe a facility I could go to?”
They replied quickly, “Of course, we have several facilities you could check into. I can provide their information if you would like.”
I hesitated, “If I do check into one of these facilities, is there also a program to help provide for my family in the meantime? Or a program that would provide child care during the day? I can’t just leave them without any income.”
The small dots appeared again, this time for several minutes before receiving a simple reply, “No, I’m sorry. There isn’t anything like that.”
I wanted to scream, I really was trapped. There was nothing I could possibly do to escape without being a burden to those I loved. Both my death and my life were a waste. I typed, “Thanks anyway, I know you tried your best,” and closed the chat. There was no point anymore, no point in anything.
No, I needed to hold on. I tried to remember my strength, how I never gave up on anything. Once I set my sights on something, it may as well already be mine. I was the only one who could do this. No one else could go all this time on so little sleep. I had to remember… I was a warrior. So please, I begged myself, just hold on.
I was struggling. Really struggling. I had finally gotten a job working from home, it was supposed to make things easier. No more working till four in the morning just to rise with the children two hours later. I’d finally get time with Erik, with the kids. I’d finally be able to keep up.
That’s not how things worked out, though. The years had worn on me, I could no longer sleep at night no matter how hard I tried, no matter the medications I was given. The damage in my spine and feet remained, nothing to be done. I had gotten out too late.
Working from home had its own stresses. Breaking up fights between children, hiding it from my clients on the phone. Timing my fifteen minute breaks to when the kids got out of school, praying that my call wouldn’t go over. Needing to remain the top performer, layoffs had started. I could not be one of them. And of course, I still needed to keep up on the apartment.
The twins had been arguing all day, I was constantly muting and un-muting my headset, trying to calm down the children. Trying to pay attention to what the customer was saying amidst screams. Only for the fight to continue five minutes later.
“Listen, you need to make sure you’re in a quite area during your calls. If this keeps up, you’ll get a wtite up. Three write ups and you”ll be let go,” my boss stated frankly. A white rage started boiling inside me. Keep it together. It’s just a bit longer.
My last call of the night went an hour late, and Erik wasn’t going to be home from school for a while. I’d have to figure out something for dinner.
Walking into the kitchen was like stumbling on a squatters den. Dishes piled up, trash on the counters and floors, and all the progress I’d made the night before was erased, like I had never cleaned anything at all.
The living room was even worse, Kaylee had cut up at least fifty pieces of paper into confetti and spread it everywhere. Evan had taken the cards out of four different board games and left them in bunches on the floor. Hot pocket packages had been left out and torn to shreds by the dog. It looked like the world’s worst bachelor party.
“Are you freaking kidding me, you guys?” I gestured to the room.
“What?” Kaylee asked.
“Um, this mess? Did it even occur to you to clean up after yourselves, or did you consciously decide to leave it for me to pick up?” I could feel the rage again, a white static sizzling under the surface.
“I’m SORRY,” Kaylee whined, slumping down into the couch.
“Sorry, Mama,” Evan said blankly, continuing to watch YouTube.
“Well, come on then. Get up and get it cleaned.”
“You mean ALL of it?” Kaylee moaned.
“After dinner,” Evan never took his eyes off his tablet.
Breathe. “No, now. While I make dinner.”
I put the corn dogs in the oven and started working on the dishes. Not even two minutes had passed before my back began to ache, attempting to pull me to the earth.
“Mom, Kaylee isn’t cleaning!”
“Nuh-uh, Evan is telling me what to do!”
“Both of you, stop fighting. Kaylee, you clean up the paper. Evan, you clean up the cards and trash. There, it’s fair for everyone.”
Kaylee threw herself onto the floor, “but that means I have to clean more than him, thats no fair!”
“Well, Kaylee. You made the bigger mess, I call that pretty fair.”
“Nuh-uh!”
I clenched my jaw. Just breathe. “Kaylee, please just get up and clean. Mommy has had a long day, my back is killing me, and I really just need your help.”
“Evans not even cleaning, so I’m not going to clean.”
I banged my fist on the counter and bit my lip. “Kaylee, Evan, clean now! Do not make me ground you!” Please, don’t.
“This is all YOUR fault!” Kaylee screamed, pushing Evan to the ground. Evan shrinking into a ball and screaming.
“STOP!” It exploded from me like a flash of light, every muscle in my body ridged as if strained from holding it in. The cup in my hand shattered, cutting my finger. My breath came out in thin, quick whistles. My mind raced, every thought muffled in a searing white haze.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?! You do realize you would already be done by now if you just shut the fuck up and did it already? Or better yet! Clean it as you make the mess so you don’t even have to bother! But no, you have to be fucking selfish and throw fits until I finally give up and do it myself. Well, you know what, I can’t anymore. I’m done! I can barely stand at the sink for five minutes! I’m broken, okay?!”
The twins were huddled together, crying.
“Just get up and fucking clean, that’s all you need to do! It’s that easy!”
Still, they didn’t say anything, just huddled together. Terrified. Terrified of me.
“Just GET OUT!” I roared.
The twins ran to their room, screaming and crying. I realized how terrifying I must have looked, how angry, how furious. Blood still dripping from my finger. I must have looked like a ravenous dog. Fangs bared, steam rising off drool and tears as they dripped from my gaping maw.
My rage folded on itself, going deeper and deeper. Reflecing on itself. Reflecting on me. I fell to my knees, put my head in my shaking hands, smearing blood across my face, and screamed until there was no more breath to give.
I was nine years old when I had my first real experience with death. His name was Vick, Mom’s first serious boyfriend after divorcing Dad.
I always thought my parents would get back together. In every t.v. show, book I’d read, or even video game, love always worked out. You had to be genuine, trustworthy, and honest, but if you were, good always prevailed.
Like any other nine year old, I had a wild imagination. Maybe more than some. I always thought I would be a hero. I believed it down to my core.
Some of my favorite stories of heros, they didn’t even risk their life. In one story, an ancient woman told a little girl she was taking the innocent of the world away to start anew. The little girl had begged and begged for a puppy for years, and finally, she got one. The little girl and the puppy became fast friends. They slept together, ate together and played together. But when the little girl learned of a place made of the purely innocent, she begged the old woman to please take her puppy so he might be happier.
There was nothing life-threatening. The puppy and the girl weren’t even unhappy. The girl could have easily kept the puppy, and they likely would have both lived a happy life together. But still, she let him go so he might have something even better.
This convinced me that there was more than one way to save someone. So maybe I could save my Dad. He missed Mom so much and asked about her every time I saw him. There must be a way to fix what happened between them.
At first, I tried the regular things. Played Mom songs about peace and love, drew picutes of our family back together, wrote stories about true love. When this didn’t work, I decided it must have been because Vick was there. So, obviously, I would have to break them up.
Dad thought this was a marvelous idea. He would often call and tell me things to say to him. “Your head is so round it could be used as a bowling ball. The only reason Mom is dating you is cause you’re the opposite from Dad, ugly.” Dad treated it like a game, both of us laughing and snickering over the phone when we came up with more mean things to say.
One day, I even took a picture of Vick and printed it from the camera. I took a black sharpie and drew a perfect circle around Vick’s head and replaced his eyes and mouth with that of a smiley face emoji, then colored in the circle yellow. The bottom of the photo came out wrong with a greenish hue that you could move around with your fingers, so I drew stink lines around it to make it look like he farted. I showed it to Vick, giggling about his perfectly round head.
A few days later, Mom got the call. Vick had shot himself in the head. Mom collapsed on the ground and cried for hours, unmoving, before Dad came to get us. He picked Mom up off the floor and held her tight as she sobbed.
When Mom’s cries finally quieted down, Dad tucked her into bed and took me and my brother out to the car. After buckling us in, he sat in the drivers seat and gave us a long sympathetic look. He rubbed his hand down my face, “Hey kid, I thought the picture was really funny.”
My fault.
We stayed with Dad for a few days before going to Vick’s funeral. When we arrived, Vick’s Mom approached me. She knelt down and gave me a big hug. “It’s going to be okay,” she said, “I’ll walk with you.”
Why doesn’t she hate me?
She led us past rows of people, his friends, and family. All silently crying into tissues. Mom was sitting in the front row, staring into a distant corner. Her face was flushed, and dried streaks ran from her eyes to her chin. She looked as if she had cried until there was nothing left. Until she was empty.
Vick came into view all at once. I had never seen a corpse before. He looked like a porcelain statue. So white. So cold.
For some reason, I couldn’t cry. Even though I wanted to. I hadn’t been able to cry once. It was as if I had gone completely numb.
My fault.
When Dad picked us up, I stared out the window, trying to focus all of my intent on a single star. Never again. This will never happen again.
About a year after I moved out of my parents’ house, I began to feel depressed. I was lonely. Every night, I would come home, sit on my couch, and play League of Legends. For weeks at a time, my life was work and video games. Nothing else.
There was a time that I spent every night with my friends, but over time, we began to become distant. I loved my friends. To me, they were there more than my own family had been. I was struggling with this sudden distance.
One night, I had a sevier asthma attack and realized I had left my inhaler in Steven’s car. It was late, so I tried to slow my breathing and just breathe it out. But my lungs became tighter and tighter.
Finally, I gave in and called Steven, but it went to voicemail. So I sent him a text: “Hey Steven, I’m having a super bad asthma attack and I left my inhaler in your car. I’m super sorry, but can you please bring it up to me?”
Minutes went by with no response. My lungs got tighter by the second until a small check mark showed up next to my message. He had seen it.
I waited patiently for twenty minutes…thirty minutes…an hour. No response. I was starting to panic now, and I couldn’t go to the hospital. I already owed a mountain of debt from previous attacks. Why was he ignoring me? Did he not care? Maybe he had just clicked on it and didn’t actually read it.
I called again, straight to voice mail. I texted again: “Please, Steven, I’m sorry it’s so late, but I really can’t breathe.” Again, that trusty little check mark popped up, and again, no response came.
I remembered he was supposed to be spending time with our friends Squee and Koby. Squee was one of my best friends, maybe he could help me get ahold of Steven.
I called, and almost immediately, Squee picked up the phone. “Squee,” I gasped, “can you please get Stev-” Laughter exploded on the other end of the line. The call ended.
Why? Why didn’t they care? Had I done something wrong? Tears and snot were streaming now until my breath was coming in shallow sobbing gulps.
I propped up some pillows to recline backward and remain elevated. Soon, I succumbed to exhaustion and passed out. Waking every thirty minutes or so, gasping for air.
After about the third time waking this way, I tried to fight sleep. I was scared. What if I fell asleep and never woke up? I texted Steven one more time, “Please, Steven, I don’t think I can last like this. I’m suffocating. I need my inhaler.”
As I was about to drift off yet again, the door of my apartment flew open. Steven barged in, throwing the inhaler at my feet, “There’s your fucking inhaler! Did you really have to call me a million times?!”
I sucked in the deepest I could from the inhaler, “I’m sorry,” I coughed, “I couldn’t br-breathe.”
“Do you realize this is why no one wants anything to do with you? Do you know what your friends say? They say you’re too much trouble! And you know what, I’m starting to think your family had the right idea when they kicked you out!”
“Please,” I sobbed, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“How about let me spend one night with my friends without calling all of us constantly?! How about stop calling us all together? Your family already can’t stand you, my family can’t stand you and now your friends are ready to leave! You’re worthless!”
I couldn’t breathe again. It was different this time. My breaths were coming in fast. Too fast. Thoughts raced through my mind, barley tangible yet full of impact. It was happening again. They were leaving me again. Everyone always leaves. Because there’s something wrong with me. They don’t want you here. They don’t want you in their lives. They want you gone.
It was then I saw the knife on the table. A steak knife. Sharp. Steven was still yelling something, but time had slowed, and I could no longer hear him.
Only a few seconds had passed, and suddenly, I was staring at my wrist. A thick cut carved through it. How did the knife get in my hand? Blood. There was blood dripping. It was running down my leg. Not enough blood. There should have been more. I hadn’t cut deep enough. I knew it almost immediately, but I felt no relief.
I was vaguely aware that Steven was hitting me, as hard as he could, left to right. I couldn’t feel a thing. I couldn’t feel anything anymore. I could breathe.
When you see me, do you remember the person I used to be? Do you remember the dinners I would make? How I would read to the kids in the garden? The walks we would take? That I was happy?
When you look at my wedding photo, you comment on my cute short hair. Do you notice my skin, lacking any scars? Do you see my lightly bronze skin, now turned gray? Do you see my bright eyes, now long and drawn?
You dismiss me when I tell you my story. How can anyone empathize with something they could never understand? It sounds unbelievable, I know. Maybe you think it’s exaggerated. Or maybe you don’t want to know what it really was.
A boss so cruel, she would tell a sixteen year old girl she was a horrible mother days after watching her fiance commit suicide in front of her. Fourteen hour shifts, running, heavy lifting, back breaking, ending in the early morning. Coming home to find it a disaster when I had only cleaned it the day before and had sacrificed my two hours of sleep to do so. Having only five minutes a day with my husband. All just words. No family, no friends, no holidays. Just work and sleepless nights for years. Unimaginable words.
Please don’t look at me that way. I want to be better. I’m trying to get better. You look at me like I’m a child when I tell you the thought of going back to work makes my stomach churn. I still get flash backs, late at night. Sleep once came so easily. Will it ever again?
In the blink of an eye, I’m back there again. I’m crying in the night. Begging my husband to let me quit, to help me find another way. As if he had any say. Drinking so much coffee, it felt as if my heart would stop. Sometimes hoping that it would. Praying I wouldn’t fall asleep watching the kids again, that nothing would happen if I did. Wondering if I would be able to spend time with my husband that month, or my friends that year.
Now, I still don’t get sleep. Sometimes, I’m up for days. Not because I’m not tired. My body won’t shut down anymore. Permanent damage in my feet and back. Chronic pain. I need to re-learn things that once came naturally to me, basic things. Easy things. Brain damage, short term memory loss. Yet, you look at me like a stubborn child.
When you look at me, do you remember who I used to be? Or is this all you’ll ever see?
The Ugly Boudoir 