If I could just figure out a cool and none too long a
subject, things would be perfect, wouldn't they? Well how
the hell would you know, you've never met me and you
probably never will, you don't know anything about my life
or me.
But that's just the crux, isn't it, to write about my life,
it seems like the obvious choice, "write down about
something your passionate about" said the thick male voice
of my therapist, but then it's a joke, I cant write about my
life as something I'm passionate about, it'll seem too much
of an irony and will probably land me a "borderline
personality" or something in my file, "attempted suicide and
yet considers life a passionate subject". Well maybe my pink
and fluffy twin does.
But is there really anything I can say to surprise Dr.
Freaky,
or is the answer "hmmm..." his official response to any
life shattering confessions, I hate shrinks. I guess that
would explain why they hate me too. I mean after Dr.
Shakyhandscantholdapencil and his colleague Dr.
Collageninjectiontotheteeth and finely Dr.
Trustmei'mnotmentalnomatterwhatthatlittlemansays, Dr.
pleasetellmeyourdirtyfantasies aka Dr. Freaky is really in
quite good company.
What is it that makes people think the younger you start the
better applies to mental treatment, it's like the whole 20
century had been infected with the analyzing bug, but still
I wonder, do most people ever imagine what it's like, how
can they go home, watch their favorite show, most likely
about people sharing their feelings, men not afraid to cry
and teens talking way too much, about stuff that will seem
ridiculous once they get out of high school and start paying
rent! And after all that, once they hear you're seeing a
therapist, it's back to the animal instinct "subject has
illness, genes not good for breading, no interest to
humanity", but this little hypocrisy gets worse, everyone
knows people have always been afraid of the mentally ill or
even those who breath air next to the mentally ill, it's no
news flash, but it looks like man has rushed forward, making
counseling an accessible and maybe even the first resort,
while keeping with tradition, and avoiding those actually
displaying this sort of weakness. for months before it
happened I'd hear about it, "you should talk to someone"
"you should go have yourself checked" for what, brain fever?
After the first time, when Annie found me in the bathtub,
all covered with blood, she'd try to talk to me, get me to
talk to someone, "what's wrong?" "Nothing, I don't want to
talk about it" it would be the same old answer, you think
talking is so easy, yeah, it is, when its about what you
read yesterday, or dates, or weekend plans, or this really
cool car you saw driving by, there's no easy answer to "so
hey, why'd you slash your wrists and sit in the tub last
night?". But wait, yes there is, my mama didn't love me, my
daddy beat me, my sweetheart dumped me, I look like a furry
stuffed animal, I'm doing bad at school...well you know the
drill, we sure as hell see in enough on TV, of course some
poor misguided souls might actually fall for that crap, but
we in the insane business know those are just excuses for
people who either don't want to tell you the real reason,
don't know it for themselves or don't have one.
Oh yes, I know what you're thinking, "I know a person who's
gone through something like that, and that's no joke!" and
if you don't know them, you've heard of them, talked to them
once, have a friend who knows them, or have absolutely no
social life, funny, isn't it, seems being familiar with the
unstable crowd still gets you points on the social scale of
"wow", but you see, no matter how many books you've read,
how sympathetic you think you are, or how important it makes
you feel to have some experience with helping "the
troubled", you don't know the ledge, if you haven't seen it,
and if it stared at straight at you, you'd probably feel
fear. But that's how you know though. Does the wind feel
nice on your face? Does everything feel just right? Are the
lights on the road down there flickering friendly at you,
inviting you, daring you, to see for yourself just how it
feels to fly? Just once. To fulfill 5 or more thousands of
years' worth of dreams, and to just fly.
I felt that way, I was ready, I was rotted enough inside to
clean myself, to fly and by that to remove all forms of care
from myself. But that's a little poetic, don't you think,
after all we're talking about a smash from a 15 story
building, believe me, there's nothing clean about it, in
fact it's just a bloody mess of brains and bones
and...blood, and how they tried to figure me out, was it the
death of my friend that had gotten to me? Was there
something with my family? Did I find this investigation
completely unnecessary? Yes. Why didn't they think I was
alright? Well, I'll admit, that question alone could've
gotten me committed, but it hasn't come to that yet, but
seriously, why can they just leave me alone? Yes, it wasn't
very nice of me to attempt suicide, especially that early in
the morning when the whole family was still asleep, and on a
Sunday of all days, how could they show their faces in
church now, Mom and Dad and Annie? I'm not saying this to
give you a hint as to the reason of my "harsh" state, yes,
my family is dysfunctional, but hey, it's the 21 century,
it's basically a trend, and may those who weep about it
snuggle in with their little pink bunnies and get ready for
another day in the fourth grade, I'm completely aware of the
irony's of my suburban life, I'm saying this so you don't
think I'm keeping anything from you, I've been completely
honest up until now, I've told you all this so that you have
a clear picture of who I am and why, I'm hoping once why see
it, the reflection in your eyes will be visible to me as
well, the truth is, as much as I denounce the pathetic
complaints of the "crybaby" club, I, to my great shame, am
yet to figure out a reason fit to give the misfits with the
PhDs, I've looked very hard indeed, I've tried my methods,
and when that didn't work I actually tried theirs, the best
I can do is say, "I was feeling kind of low, so I decided to
go for a run, a little jogging, and somehow ended up on the
15th floor of a building, with no cloths on and an intense
desire to test the powers of gravity" when that didn't work,
I tried the poetic explanation of metaphorical flight, and
you should know that whenever  saying stuff that might be
taken as "death can be so romantic" you're immediately
branded "teenage attention seeker" or "middle-aged
dilusionist" if that's even a word, so then I gave up, I
tried to brake free, really I did, I talked to everyone I
could, talked see, I have no problem with that, about the
fact that I didn't need this, that I'm better and it was
just a temporary insanity kind of moment, but once again, I
guess all my friends and family really wanted to get further
ahead on that "wow" scale, and I cant really blame them, I
mean, would you listen to a person who's officially tried to
commit suicide, twice, telling you they needed no mental
help, I mean, this isn't ancient Egypt, wanting to be dead
isn't really considered a virtue, and so I had to make dues,
I walked into a therapists office and I said "bring it on!"
well not out loud of course. Do you want to know what he
said when I told him I had no idea why I was here? He said
"you tried to jump off a building Drew" great start moron!
Insult my intelligence, I hate that, people talking to me
like I'm a baby, I wonder if babies even like to be talked
to that way, I wish I could write poetry, maybe I could make
this work to my advantage, wouldn't it be cool if my whole
file rhymed, and then would be published as a great literary
piece and studied and stuff, if little bastards in
universities that make PhDs learned my file as an example,
I'm not sure of what yet, but that part of my twisted
fantasy will come, I'm sure, unfortunately, my scramblings
cant even be considered a good enough reason to waste ink
on, so I'm writing this as impersonal as I can, in type, I
just want to be home again, really home, you know before it
all got this messy, home as in comfortable slippers and
friends coming over and having chats over coffee, and
watching TV on Sunday night, that comfortable feeling of
home you might have after a hard days work, when it can
really be appreciated, don't get me wrong, I'm not sad over
being stopped at the brink of suicide, I'm just in mourning,
for my home, that will never be again, and maybe that's what
I did, if you demand a personal theory, I mourned, for what
I don't know yet, for life unfulfilled, for life wasted or
for life bulling you around just waiting for you to brake,
and if that's what happened, if that's what it says in that
big mental file up in the sky, that I broke, well that just
sucks.
What, did you expect a final closing? Some great closure to
this whole issue? I told I don't know. And besides, who
would believe someone as crazy as me, I'm not even capable
of telling the truth, how do you know I haven't been lying
to you all along, that this little story isn't all bogus? I
guess you don't huh?
Hi, my name's Drew, and I can't pick out a subject I'm
passionate about, will you help me?