11 Jan 1420
Why
don't you tell us how you got here, then.
It was Friday evening when I came home. My boss was upset because I
was late again. I didn't say I had been coming in Saturdays and Sundays.
Not that those bastards cared. They made it quite plain that depression
isn't a disease, it's a character flaw.
I was so angry with myself. I just couldn't wake up on time. I have
no control over myself. I still don't.
Everything just kept whirling around and around in my head. Everybody
was so angry with me. I was so frightenned, so miserable. The monsters
kept chasing me inside my skull. If only I could let the bad blood out.
The pain, that's my punishment and my anchor to reality.
Then the mongoose got out. It perches in the dark corners of the ceiling.
It scurries real fast, so no matter how quick I turn, it gets to another
corner. So I can never see it. But I can feel its gaze on the back of my
neck. One of these days it's going to pounce and kill me with one bite
through my brainstem.
Then the deep, black pit openned below my feet. I stood on the edge,
looking into it. It was so welcoming. I knew I was going to jump in, but
I spent a few minutes on the edge thinking about the delicious, black numbness.
Then I threw myself in.
You had something else to add?
I think it must be easier for schizophrenics. They lose control, but
they also lose all contact with reality. I guess it's also a nightmare
you can't wake up from. But, still, I remain conscious the entire time.
It's so damn frustrating. I know I'm screwing up, but I can't stop myself.
Everybody thinks you're crazy, then you're irrational. When you're
insane you're foaming at the mouth and thrashing around, so they come looking
for you with a straitjacket. If you're rational, you can't be insane.
They
just don't see how you can be superrational. It happens to me sometimes.
I'm going along, not so well, but I'm going on, when all my emotions are
switched off. All my intellect is there, but no morality. Also, no fear.
That's nice. You don't know how nice it is not to be afraid.
They talk about how they're compelled to do it, it's not a matter of
choice, but just how their brains're wired. So they ask for compassion,
for acceptance, for a chance to live without constant threat or justification.
That's for gays, not depressives.
We got a chance to see their compassion in action.
They made a big a deal about how Dan White methodically killed the
mayor, methodically reloaded his gun, methodically tracked down Harvey
to kill him next. He could have very methodical and aware of his surroundings.
But with absolutely no understanding of the moral consequences of his actions.
And all that garbage about Twinkies. One way to regulate serotonin
levels. But would those faggots listen? No. Their hero was dead, so the
hell with compassion and acceptance for people who are different.
We depressives don't have heros. You can never let people know.
So, after the faggots lynched White, they changed the law. Now they
can punish crazies. How constructive. They executed White, what more do
they want? People don't understand we punish ourselves far worse than anyone
else can. Day and night. Awake and sleep.
How?
I....I didn't mean to say that.
I take a knife to my upper thighs, where my clothes hide the scars.
Can't let anybody see them, or know.
Oooh, Jenny, don't act so crazy.
It feels so nice when it hurts. There is no such thing as pleasure,
only pain. When you feel pain, you know you're still alive. And all that
dirty blood flows out. It washes me clean.
When I was, oh, nine, I was home alone with Dad. Mom was doing the
weekly shopping, because Dad got paid Fridays. Sometimes I went with her.
That particular day my sister Elaine had gone with her.
I was really into basketball back then, back before I learned women
aren't suppose to sweat. So I was on the driveway practicing layups, freethrows,
and whatnot. Dad had put up a basktball hoop and backboard for us.
in middlenight when moon is pall
the demons creep by door and wall
the shadow thick with shame enslaves
to pull you down the pit that raves
so welcome in their witherred limbs
to kiss their cheeks and keen the hymns
So, I was dribbling the ball and dodging my imaginary opponents. And I
was running in and out to drink water. Dad was in a good mood. There were
some bottles on the counter I had never seen before. Or maybe I had, up
in the high cabinets, I'm not sure. So everytime I ran in, I saw him drinking
from them.
It was one of those spring evenings that last forever, that you remember
for the rest of your life. The sky was a perfect blue glow. It went from
the deep deep blue overhead, the colour that pulls you off the earth to
float among the clouds, and it paled to a delicate shell blue where the
sun had dropped below the hills. A few clouds, glowing like embers, were
the last remnant of the daylight.
Dad played one-on-one with me, but he wasn't playing too well. He was
having trouble moving fast, so I creamed him. He didn't mind, it was all
a big joke. I laughed with him.
It was getting too dark to see anymore, so I knew it was time to go
in. Mom would be home soon anyway and park in the driveway. Besides, there
was some important TV show on. I can't remember what it was. Funny that
what's so important to a nine-year-old can be completely forgotten twenty
years later.
It was mostly dark inside, the light coming in through the glass door
of the family room, facing the last glow of the day before the dark dark
night. Dad hadn't turned on the lights, but I could still see all the bottles
on the counter. The empty bottles.
I was going to turn on the TV when the phone rang. Dad answerred, "Zis
is Mike."
"Jim.....Jim."
He was crying. I had never seen that before. I felt I had to help him,
but how? I went to his side, put my hand on his arm. He speaking incoherently,
about how nothing was working, how life wasn't worth living. I couldn't
do anything but watch.
He collapsed, too drunk to stand any longer. I held him, trying to
ease him down, as best as I could, so he wouldn't get hurt. I tried to
comfort him. I put my arms as far around him as I could. I could hear Jim
calling out on the phone.
Mom came home. She came with a bag of groceries, singing out hello,
why's it so dark. I think she dropped the bag to the floor.
I remember the sound of breaking glass. Maybe that's why I remember
her as dropping the bag. I don't remember much after that. Mom sent me
and Elaine to their bedroom. We huddled in the bathroom. That's when the
shakes hit me.
Before all this, I had been after Mom for weeks to buy me some fish.
My best friend had some, and so I wanted some. I was-I still am-a selfish
bitch. It's not something I'm proud of, but at least I face the truth.
Mom bought me the fish and bowl. A couple of goldfish, a catfish, some
plants. I put the fishbowl on my dresser to keep me company while I did
my homework or I needed to hide out. Little living pieces of gold. God,
were they stupid.
Each night that Mom and Dad fought, I went to my bedroom and watched
them, swimming back and forth so lazily, constantly gulping. They never
heard the shouts or banging doors.
I tried to pretend I was a stupid goldfish, never having to worry about
anything. Elaine would come in and stand next to me. We didn't say anything.
Didn't move except our eyes to follow the goldfish.
When things settled down, Elaine would sigh. I tugged at her and we
went out. She went to watch TV with Dad, to laugh and sigh and get him
involved. I went to the kitchen and washed the dishes. Mom would join me,
doing the drying. After awhile, we would start talking about what I had
done in school. By the time we were done, Mom and Dad were calmed down
enough that we could all watch TV together.
Your typical nuclear family.
It was a long time before I found out that wasn't a reference to H-bombs.
It was up to me to feed the fish everyday. The man at the store taught
me how, just a few shakes each day. And I did feed them. At least at first.
Every morning when I woke up, I fed the fish the first thing. That
way I wouldn't forget. Until that night Dad got drunk. I overslept the
next morning, so much so Mom barely got me to the bus on time. And I forgot
to feed the fish.
Dad wasn't home when we got home from school. Mom said he was in the
hospital and wouldn't be back for a few weeks. I had nightmares all night
long. I don't remember them, but I kept waking up all night long. I was
late again and forgot the fish a second day.
By the third morning, I had completely forgotten about feeding them.
Mom was right, I am a selfish brat. The fish hadn't done me any harm. I
was suppose to take care of them. They had no one else to turn to. I failed
them.
It was maybe a week later when I looked in the fishbowl again. All
the fish were floating on the top, belly up. I had murderred them.
I sat on the end of bed staring. I started crying. Mom came in and
sat next me. "Don't worry, Jennifer, Daddy will be home soon."
I could only point to the bowl. Mom tsked. She poured the fish and
most of the water down the toilet. I didn't even give them a decent burial.
She shook the gravel and plants into the garbage can.
All that night, and even to this day, their souls come back to me in
my dreams, asking why, why, did I kill them. They were-they are-too
stupid and just can't understand how I could be so callous.
I never botherred Mom about pets again. I'd only kill them too.
'While at Chelsea, I had heard rumors about Verity
from some of the soldiers. I knew that she had been a commander in the
militia, but she had been removed for medical reasons. That was part of
the record.
'They said she had gone crazy. I lost track of
her because I avoided her. Like everyone else I put crazies on the same
level as circus clowns, rattlers, or banana slugs.'
-Patricia Metley
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