Psyche logo

Me: Untitled

Shockingly True and Undoubtedly Unnerving: Chapter 1

By C.K. MiltonPublished 6 years ago 13 min read
Like
Artwork I had completed during this time period

Preface

I do not want any future readers to believe that there is a “point” to this story—it is not about me, in all my adolescent and teenage glory learning the problems of life and how to deal with my angst in a coming-of-age sort of way. In no way, do I wish that young persons to follow in my footsteps for an idealistic “emerging from my ruins” moment, romanticized and frequently retold by numerous media in the 2010s world. I say this, because I know of many stories in which a lead protagonist, usually a teenager, goes through a traumatic event, or has a mental illness of some sort, that the story is either based around or is a driving force in the character’s decisions. In such stories, the illness, trauma, or even suicide is considered poetic, even beautiful.

Bullshit. Every part of it.

In my personal life, I have been to hell and back, only to end up on a hospital bed in the middle of a psychiatric care facility, wondering both literally and metaphorically how I ended up there in the first place (I suffer extreme memory loss from the night before, and still have not regained it). My mental health took a beating and reached a breaking point, and I knew something had to change. The next few hundred pages are how I am learning to cope and sort through the events leading up to the moment in the hospital bed with paper gowns, and how I am learning to change and better my life so that I can keep living for a little bit longer.

As I write this preface, only 13 days have passed since what I call the “breaking point,” and already so much of my daily life (for better or worse) has changed- but we will get to that at a later point. What I am stressing is that I do not know if my plan for improvement, my plan for my health, will work. I do not know if I will finish this book. I do not even know if I am going to live to see the sun rise next week. But right now, I am trying. And that is all I really have right now—the undeniable fact that I have not given up on myself yet, and have no plans to give up in the future.

1. A Good Day

The day things fell apart for me, in total truth, was actually one of the good days. I don’t mean that this certain day in question stood out as being overtly, undoubtedly, extremely, and undeniably great peppered with the extraordinary memories. I mean that, in the grand scope of my life, it was a good day. With depression, however, it can stand out. It leaves a feeling in your stomach that feels warm; when you remember the happenings and goings on of a good day, a smile creeps on your face. Good days give hope that, in your lowest points of daily life, maybe things aren’t as bad. That people do love you, and life does not have to be a chore.

I guess when described like that, good days can be seen as something extraordinary—they help people like me, people that have my “condition,” feel like life can be worth it.

Which makes everything I’m about to share so much stranger.

Which makes one wonder what spark—if there was one in the first place—managed to set me off.

Which makes me, every night, worry about if I’ve not only fooling my friends with the fake smiles and forced laughter, but if I’ve been fooling myself as well.

~

People commented on how happy I was. How energetic. How driven. That morning, I had been up since 8 o’clock. Weird for a school day (I had made sure all my classes started after 10 due to the fact that the prior semester I had taken all 8 a.m.’s), but even more out of character for a weekend (it was a Saturday).

Up until this point, this pin in my lifeline, I had already encountered so many different problems in my personal life, so many issues with my mental health, and so many rotten and toxic relationships, I found it hard to be alone with my time for too long. After all, that’s when you remember your worst memories. When you relive your worst nightmares. It happens when you are alone, and when you have time. For me personally, at times it could be crushing. Numbing. Unsafe. I could cry for hours at a time, and that would be best case scenario—but we will get to that. I just know I could not have “free time”—not because I did not enjoy it, I just didn’t know what to do.

Thus, the obvious solution was to occupy all my time, never have a second alone.

I was only a month into the semester, but my plate was full (I had to schedule time to sleep, if that says anything). I had four classes, two labs, and a part time job as a marketing intern at our college’s Innovation Center. Along with my academic and professional endeavors, I also piled on extracurriculars manifested in my love for dance (I had performed since I was 8). When practices, time spent choreographing, performances, and time spent planning our clubs end-of semester-show with the club’s committee, it amounted to about 10 hours of dance a week. If I was not already busy, I could go stir crazy. Instead of focusing on school work, I found myself in the gym for 1 or 2 hours at a time, occasionally twice a day. I could not leave myself to be alone. I thought it was healthy. So did everybody.

That’s why I asked my boss if I could attend our Center’s events throughout the semester—more time doing things, less time to think. That is why I was waking up at the ass-crack of dawn on a Saturday; the event let me distract myself for four hours of the day. Now, I would like to note that I did not sign up for all these activities with this purpose in mind. I did not go up to my boss, asking to go to this event, thinking “I hope I can go, that I way I can stop reminiscing about the fuck up that is my life.” It was more of “I feel sad if I don’t do anything, so let’s do things that force me to not be sad anymore.” Looking back, it was more of a mask for my feelings than an actual way to cope.

Up an at ‘em. 7am. Sharp. After I chose my outfit, I went to the event and took pictures for four hours. Of what, I cannot remember. The people were talking of ideas and things that at that moment I felt extremely invested in, taking notes and showing general interest. Now, however, whatever points they made, whatever topics they discussed, all seem trivial in my life. While interesting, they have no import. Once the event was over, I rushed my way to get something to eat, because in an hour I had to meet with people for a group project, one that I never even got a chance to complete. I remember walking towards the café on campus, feeling on top of the world. It was 65 in the middle of February, and I felt high on the fact that my day was packed, scheduled to the T—like a business woman on Wall Street (even though I hate Wall Street with a passion). I didn’t even have a goal. I just loved feeling that busy. Concentrating on what had to be done in that very second, not paying attention to my upsetting past or the future that I had not yet conceived.

My mother called as I was waiting for my food. You, delightful reader, do not know my mother. Talking with her, especially when the person on the other end is me, is a terrifying thing. It can go two ways. Things end fine, and you leave the call wondering why she was acting so weird. I say, because usually the second thing happens—you end the call crying, throwing your phone against the wall and your friends telling you everything will get better with her eventually. Answering a call from my mother is something that cannot be done in public, and is something I have to be emotionally ready for, and usually ends up me letting her go to voicemail. As to why I answered her call that day, I wish I hadn’t. I doubt things would have turned out differently, but maybe she wouldn’t have been on my mind later that night.

The call was surprisingly mild. We talked of plans of a trip to visit my hometown with my friends, one I was supposed to take two weeks after that day. I told her of my day, things went how normal families would talk to each other. It was weird. Even when I asked about my dad, a person she does not get along with, she described only good things. I know for a fact, however, she did not think so highly of my dad. Two times a day they would go and fight when I was home—fights that lead to slamming doors and someone needing to leave the house for a while. We were both wearing these masks, telling each other things were okay. We both knew they weren’t. When my mother prying into my life, that’s when I used my famous catchphrase.

“I’m really busy today. I’ll talk to you later.”

I felt empty. She would say she loved me, that my dad loved me. She could repeat this ten. Fifty. A thousand times over, but I could never believe it. This call didn’t leave me upset, crying, shaking, or screaming. It left me cracked. Broken.

Isn’t plexiglass a fickle thing? Hundreds or thousands of small, tiny cracks can make up a Plexiglass window pane, yet it can still stand. Remain unmoving, and it will not cave. Add the slightest bit of pressure, however, and everything can come showering down at once. All those little pieces scattered, almost impossible to fit back together.

That call added another crack into my plexiglass self, and the fragile psyche I had was about to shatter.

I pushed it aside. After all, I was too busy. I didn’t have time to think about it. I ate a quick lunch in my room, and talked to my roommate-made-friend Celia. We laughed and playfully yelled about our loud friends across the hall—we were quite the obnoxious group of gals. I stopped in to say high before heading to my group meeting.

“Wow Sarah. You seem really on top of things today. I’ve never seen you this energetic for this long. Talkative, too.” My friend Emma commented on my peppiness while filling a water bottle with tequila and Sunny D. It was a Saturday after all, and as for me, well I was having a good day. One of the good days.

“Two extra anxiety pills and three cups of coffee.” I laughed. We pretended it was a joke. For her, she probably wasn’t pretending. I most certainly was. Because that morning, as I was getting ready, I did not like how I looked (remember?). I had already taken one of my over-the-counter herbal medication (St. John’s Wart). I couldn’t OD on it, so I figured another one wouldn’t hurt. And then a third, just to for good measure. It wasn’t new for me. If I ever felt the meds weren’t working, I’d up the dose for the day. Never had a problem with it before, and I don’t think it was the problem that night. But, at this point, who knows.

The day faded into the night, and my friends and I made plans to go party that night, something we hadn’t done in weeks. The Sweethearts Dance was that night, and of course dancing is my favorite pastime. Celia and I showered and shaved and got excited—listening to music, laughing while getting ready to head to dinner with our friend Michael. I don’t remember what we talked about—I wished I did. I just remember being so undeniably happy. Chuckling with excitement as we ate our sad looking salad and pizza in the dining hall. My two friends and I stopped by the campus store to get some supplies for the night: three different flavors of PowerAde, chips, and every type of m&ms they carried, the candy-coated chocolate being a staple in our friend group. No night out would be complete without the sugar. We joked the way back to the dorm, acting like hilarious fools to the point where I was clutching my stomach and tearing up. It was a good day.

Back at the dorm, more of our friends met up with us, and pre-gaming started. We drank half our PowerAdes (or some other drink of choice) and filled them up with Vodka. The potato water is not ranked highly in my book due to its uncanny similarities to witch hazel. But it’s clear, and clear liquor is better liquor. Plus, my friends were a bit of alcohol snobs (by that, I mean they couldn’t handle their Whiskey, the only proper shot I will take). It did not matter though; the music was up and the energy was high. It was a good day. I barely had any alcohol in my system—my distaste for Vodka prevented me from taking more than a few sips—yet I felt ethereal. Happy. How much of it was me, and how much was the mask, I do not remember.

What I do remember, however, is joking around with Emma. God she was pretty. Not girl next door pretty, or girl in class pretty. She was so much more. She was interesting, funny, tall, with short, choppy blonde hair that radiated and square glasses that drew you to her eyes. It was the way she talked of God and Irish Americans (we both have lineage from the Emerald Isle. Probably why we both are Roman Catholic). She never cared about societal expectations about woman or gender or stereotypes. It was all of the physical and personal characteristics of her that made her so beautiful to me. She was so intimidating, so I never felt that I could ask her out. I felt that she would never like me.

Emma, in the middle of our conversation, pulls out a bottle of apple flavored Whiskey, and I thank God. I did not want to go dancing as the only sober one. I just need to have fun tonight.

I took a shot.

.

Emma tells me she used to like me, as more than a friend. I tell her I like her too. She had a boyfriend by then. She talks about how she wishes we got together, but that she loves him. I missed my chance.

Another shot.

.

.

She talks about her mother. How much she loves her mom. How much her mom loves her. Why doesn’t my mom love me?

Another shot.

.

.

.

I told my friends that I can’t love. That I don’t know how to but I care about all of them. I never learned and I never will. I’m going to be alone.

Another shot.

.

.

.

.

I remember laughing. Photos I found on my phone prove I was happy. I remember laughing. But I was plexiglass.

Then everything shattered.

disorder
Like

About the Creator

C.K. Milton

Just a young aspiring writer, trying to make his mark on this world. Get it? Mark?

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.