Bill texts me in the darkness before dawn.
"a piece of a poem written by arthur symons." He writes,
"unresting water, there shall never be rest
til the last moon droops and the last tide fails.
and the fire of the end begins to burn in the west
and the heart shall be weary and wonder and cry like the sea
all life crying without avail
as the water all night long
is crying to me."
...
"Life carries on." They say. But it doesn't really. Not for some.
It is the darkest, most malicious winter I have known in my twenty-seven years. On the eve of March, we are still buried in mountains of snow, still bracing against dangerously cold winds as the temperature drops and drops again.
There have been two suicides this past week that I know of.
I didn't know either of them personally, but I know it could have been me.
...
"We never talk about the hospital." Molly says, out of the blue. "About your suicide attempt."
I pause, but then I shrug. "I've talked about it so much, it doesn't really bother me anymore."
She looks skeptical, so I start to talk, to prove her wrong. But for the first time in five months...I find myself lost for words.
"What are you feeling right now?" She asks gently. She's leaning forward in her chair watching me struggle, and I suddenly feel fragile.
"....like I might cry." I finally mumble.
"You can cry, you know. It's ok to cry." She says.
"I don't want to."
So I don't.
...
I get in trouble at work. It's over a small thing, in my opinion, but my boss thinks otherwise. She surprises me one morning with a guilt trip so thick, I am stunned. She slaps it on, layer after layer, without giving me a chance to breathe.
I should have defended myself, but I didn't. I just slowly caved in.
Stupid. You stupid fucking idiot. I tell my watery reflection in the bathroom mirror. I hate you. Everyone hates you. Why don't you just die already? I wish you would just die.
I stumble through the rest of the day, a defeated, hollow shell. I try to focus on my work, but I just keep thinking about how pointless it was to go on living. I thought I'd mostly clawed my way out of that dark hole, but one little conversation shoved me right back in.
...but maybe not all the way.
Because that night, I tell the Mr. I tell him. I speak the words out loud. And he doesn't panic. He just holds me and makes me say all of the things I love in life until I am completely annoyed, but smiling at the same time.
The thoughts are still there, my own furious, damning voice echoing around in my head, but they are a little easier to ignore.
...
I try to start a new blog. I am spurred by a sudden passion to tell my story as myself. To show the people who know me who I really am. To be an advocate for people with mental illnesses. To maybe give someone else the courage to be vulnerable.
I throw myself into the design. I am excited. So excited that I struggle willingly through lines of code that read like Chinese to my brain.
Then it is all designed, beautiful, just the way I want it. I open a new post, the first post, and I stare at it.
The cursor blinks blinks blinks blinks.
I write a paragraph. Then two. I start over. The cursor blinks. I get up, make some tea. I come back. I write one sentence. Then I delete it.
A week later, the blog still sits empty, void. I don't know how to fill it with honesty, with the ugly things inside my head. They won't get it. They won't understand. I thought I was brave, but I just feel....fragile.
...
"...all life crying without avail
as the water all night long
is crying to me.
hope it rings true in your dark, porcelain heart, jasmine."
I read Bill's text three times. Then I lay back down, next to the Mr. who drowsily throws a warm arm around me. I fall asleep again listening to the crying of the sea.
I hope you have people in your life who understand. I hope you know that if you need someone who understands, I am here in my dusty, cluttered little corner willing to try.
