I Was Just Looking For A Way Out...
Chapter 13
I mean… I knew it had to end, eventually at least; what I didn’t now was how soon. Or how painfully for that matter, and I sure as hell didn’t predict how awkwardly.
Not awkward like being a bit premature and wearing the evidence on your pants. That’s the normal public humiliation, the kind that earns you a nickname or something. Get shit and live it down kind of awkward. I was referring more to the kind where your girlfriend cheats on you with your best friend, and dumps you for him. More depressing then awkward really… “
Did I mention the two are still my best friends, and I’m just the lovable third wheel on their romantic bike ride” By loveable I of course meant pathetic.
Pathetic, worthless, a living shame spiral, I guess those are a few good ways to describe me. To describe the way I felt, to how I feel because my little fall from the top wasn’t humiliating enough without me reliving it every ten minutes.
The saddest part still is that my ‘top’ was a time when I was actually pretty depressed. It’s no wonder she left my apathetic ass.
“It’s sad how I can still see us, Tara and I, sitting on a park bench. Our arms are intertwined with each other all lovey dovey and were holding hands. Fingers laced, not cupped, because it feels important for some reason. Were sharing the headphones from my iPod, and she whispers something in my free ear; I don’t know what because I’m some creepy voyeur to the scene, but whatever she whispers makes me smile. The way I’m creepily watching is kind of what it’s like in real life… Tara and mark in the same thing, only the iPod isn’t there and the arms are a little different, but not the laced fingers and the whisper… There’s always the god damn whisper.”
She nods and writes it down. The funny part is, while I’m spilling my guts I’m thinking how different it would be if I had a guy therapist. I wouldn’t be saying jack shit about this. The same way I wouldn’t ever say anything to a guy friend. It’s not homophobia from my man loving ass or some effort to save masculinity. I don’t know why but it’s just weird. Some unwritten, unknown taboo that I blindly follow, like the religion I started out with.
“So would you say that your depression might be because of these problems with your friends?”
I honestly know it isn’t, but that doesn’t really seem like the kind of answer to get me out of this place. It’s better that I’m irrational and prone to overreact then that I honestly need help, better to be broken for a reason then just damaged out of the box. I begin to say the lie, but some random shred of hope for help shuts me up. The best I can manage is a half lie.
“I guess… I think all of that really just made the depression worse. Ya know?”
“Well if they aren’t the cause, what would you say is the real root?” She asks calmly.
“I don’t know. I don’t even know if I’m really depressed. I mean for how the world is this kind of seems like a logical response to everything. Is cold indifference the wrong reaction to a cold indifferent world?” I’m lying, about the part where I don’t know if I’m depressed at least.
“So you think attempted suicide is the logical response?”
“No… I don’t think that at all.” I partial lie now, because a glimmer of truth, of real emotion, that’s what makes it believable. “I meant this sort of… cynical, desensitized, bored look on life.”
“Now what do you mean by bored?” She asks, still calm only occasionally looking up from her clip board to stare me in the eye. This is how therapists work, they keep you talking and try to pick up some mental problem out of the chaotic ramblings.
“I mean… I mean what I said, bored. The way we face most of our lives, disinterested, disassociated, really just wishing there was something better. Only there isn’t. There’s a pretty big difference between a desperate wish and a real hope that most people just don’t see.” Man I feel like a narrator here… but that’s pretty much what I do all my life. I even think in narration, like some creepy movie is going on around me. It’s also kind of what therapy is, pulling out all your thoughts for somebody else to look at.
The rest of the session goes the same way. Me making vague remarks or lying, and her questioning everything I say. Thank fucking god it’s only an hour and fifteen minutes I have to put up the charade.
Not awkward like being a bit premature and wearing the evidence on your pants. That’s the normal public humiliation, the kind that earns you a nickname or something. Get shit and live it down kind of awkward. I was referring more to the kind where your girlfriend cheats on you with your best friend, and dumps you for him. More depressing then awkward really… “
Did I mention the two are still my best friends, and I’m just the lovable third wheel on their romantic bike ride” By loveable I of course meant pathetic.
Pathetic, worthless, a living shame spiral, I guess those are a few good ways to describe me. To describe the way I felt, to how I feel because my little fall from the top wasn’t humiliating enough without me reliving it every ten minutes.
The saddest part still is that my ‘top’ was a time when I was actually pretty depressed. It’s no wonder she left my apathetic ass.
“It’s sad how I can still see us, Tara and I, sitting on a park bench. Our arms are intertwined with each other all lovey dovey and were holding hands. Fingers laced, not cupped, because it feels important for some reason. Were sharing the headphones from my iPod, and she whispers something in my free ear; I don’t know what because I’m some creepy voyeur to the scene, but whatever she whispers makes me smile. The way I’m creepily watching is kind of what it’s like in real life… Tara and mark in the same thing, only the iPod isn’t there and the arms are a little different, but not the laced fingers and the whisper… There’s always the god damn whisper.”
She nods and writes it down. The funny part is, while I’m spilling my guts I’m thinking how different it would be if I had a guy therapist. I wouldn’t be saying jack shit about this. The same way I wouldn’t ever say anything to a guy friend. It’s not homophobia from my man loving ass or some effort to save masculinity. I don’t know why but it’s just weird. Some unwritten, unknown taboo that I blindly follow, like the religion I started out with.
“So would you say that your depression might be because of these problems with your friends?”
I honestly know it isn’t, but that doesn’t really seem like the kind of answer to get me out of this place. It’s better that I’m irrational and prone to overreact then that I honestly need help, better to be broken for a reason then just damaged out of the box. I begin to say the lie, but some random shred of hope for help shuts me up. The best I can manage is a half lie.
“I guess… I think all of that really just made the depression worse. Ya know?”
“Well if they aren’t the cause, what would you say is the real root?” She asks calmly.
“I don’t know. I don’t even know if I’m really depressed. I mean for how the world is this kind of seems like a logical response to everything. Is cold indifference the wrong reaction to a cold indifferent world?” I’m lying, about the part where I don’t know if I’m depressed at least.
“So you think attempted suicide is the logical response?”
“No… I don’t think that at all.” I partial lie now, because a glimmer of truth, of real emotion, that’s what makes it believable. “I meant this sort of… cynical, desensitized, bored look on life.”
“Now what do you mean by bored?” She asks, still calm only occasionally looking up from her clip board to stare me in the eye. This is how therapists work, they keep you talking and try to pick up some mental problem out of the chaotic ramblings.
“I mean… I mean what I said, bored. The way we face most of our lives, disinterested, disassociated, really just wishing there was something better. Only there isn’t. There’s a pretty big difference between a desperate wish and a real hope that most people just don’t see.” Man I feel like a narrator here… but that’s pretty much what I do all my life. I even think in narration, like some creepy movie is going on around me. It’s also kind of what therapy is, pulling out all your thoughts for somebody else to look at.
The rest of the session goes the same way. Me making vague remarks or lying, and her questioning everything I say. Thank fucking god it’s only an hour and fifteen minutes I have to put up the charade.