dcembervwrites

[dcembervwrites]

Last year, I had said how I wanted to write about Solitaire and We Are the Ants back when I read the former for the first time. I had pondered on that post how both books could "share some of the same core messages," and while I think I was right, there was more than just that. For one, both happen to feature main characters with undiagnosed depression* and a supporting character who faces anger issues that will become very special to the main character as they care a lot about them. Also, both our main characters went through something very traumatic in their stories: Henry having to survive the aftermath of his boyfriend's death by suicide, and Tori going through the motions after what I'm assuming is Charlie's downward spiral with his eating disorder and self-harm. It really shines a light, in my opinion, that these types of situations not only affect those who go through it but those who surround them. Still, it's not like these novels shame those feelings. On the contrary, it illustrates the importance of surrounding ourselves with people who want to help us, people who know we deserve help, but most importantly choosing on our own accord that we deserve better as they keep on showing them that live is worth something. To quote the ending of Solitaire: "I don't know what's going to happen to us. I don't know how long I'm going to be like this. All I know is that I'm here. And I'm alive. And I'm not alone."

However, the way our characters deal with those feelings throughout most, if not the entire novel is really dark. There are two specific moments in each of their novels that to my personal opinion are the darkest. First, we have Tori breaking down when she tells Lucas the following:

Maybe, like, everyone I know has problems. Like, there are no happy people. Nothing works out. Even when it's someone who you think is perfect. Like my brother! ... one day he got so fed up with himself, he was like, he was so annoyed, he hated how much he loved food, yeah, so he thought it would be better if there wasn't any food. But that's so silly! Because you've got to eat food or you'll die, won't you? So my brother, Charles, Charlie, he, he thought it would be better if he just got it over with then and there! So he, last year, he—he hurt himself. And he wrote me this card afterwards, telling me he was really sorry and he didn't mean it to happen. But it did happen. And you know what just makes me want to die? The fact that, like, all that time, I knew it was coming, but I didn't do anything. I didn't even say anything to anyone about it, because I thought I'd been imagining it.

It hurts to read this, not only because she says this makes her want to die, but because she describes to us how she probably exaggerating all of this, that it wasn't that big of a deal, but we know that it was and it is a big deal. It makes me think of how much it hurts to take it upon yourself to pretend to be well, and the changes you might show in your personality will not be paid attention to either by friends or family when you're basically screaming inside. To me, this scene puts into perspective the way Tori behaved from the very beginning, very apathetic towards life; when something would be going well in her life, she would self-sabotage and kind of practically try to ruin her relationships around her, isolating herself.

Then there's Henry who I believe haw always dealt with feelings of worthlessness with his father walking out on them. Part of me thinks this because we gleam from all he tells of about Jesse that he put a lot of his self-worth on him so much that when Jesse's gone, it all comes back full force. His family is now deteriorating with his mother working herself to the ground, his grandmother having Alzheimer, his brother being a drop out who gets his girlfriend pregnant, and his best friend disappearing for months after Jesse's death by suicide. To me he is just afraid of opening up again and though the entire novel wonders whether the world is worth saving with the push of a button. When he finally reaches his breaking point, we get the following exhange:

"Henry." Mom's bottom lip trembled. "Do you wish you were dead?"

We slammed does in my family. We beat each other up and we asked questions we didn't want answers to and we wielded silence like a dagger. I wasn't sure how to respond to her blunt honesty except with honesty of my own. "I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to live, either. I don’t know why anyone would. This world is so fucked up, Mom, I think we’d all be better off if I didn’t press that button. Everything hurts so much. And I miss Jesse, and I tried to be okay. I thought Marcus could help me forget, and Diego could replace Jesse, but I miss him so much."

Mom was quiet for a long time. Her silence stretched across the morning and led me back through the part hundred days, and I knew what she was going to say before she finally said it. "I think you need help, Henry."

"I don't need help."

"Then answer me truthfully: Are you okay?"

... All I had to do was to tell my mom I was okay, and she'd believe me. ... All I had to do was say three little words, and I could fix all that I'd broken. But I was broken too, and I didn't know how to fix myself.

Going back to what I said earlier, it hurts to read moments like these and all that lead to them. All I'm seeing is two teenagers begging for help, and to see them thinking of their lives being worth so little just hurts. It makes me think of the fact that you wouldn't want to hear friends talking about themselves the way they're thinking. You would want them to know they're loved, cared for, and important. This is most likely the reason I adore Michael Holden and Diego Vega, both characters who also incidentally might be pansexual (add representation bonus as well as another similarity I should've referenced earlier). They come into the lives of the protagonists when they most need it. Both relationships are extremely different, though, as Diego and Henry are both romantically and sexually attracted to each other, whereas in my experience Michael and Tori seem more of a platonic relationship bordering into romantic, but they kind of take it upon themselves to try and be there for them.

Michael looks for Tori enough that there will be moments Tori looks for him, and while they have some fights and disagreements, they still find a way into each other's lives. While I've always loved the idea of having a Diego in my life, I do gravitate more towards the kind of relationship Tori and Michael could have (or the way I read it at least. I'm ace after all, and I can't help but wonder where their friendship will go forth, but I have my ideas). A scene that I feel encapsulate what they mean for each other is at the end when they have the following exchange, which has made me cry the two times I've read it:

"Do you want to kill yourself?" he asks, and the question sounds unreal because you never hear anyone asking that question in real life.

"I don't want you to do that," he says. "I can't let you do that. You can't leave me here alone."

His voice breaks.

"You need to be here," he says.

As for Diego, we get a bit more insight on his anger issues as that's the way he and his sister find themselves in Calypso, but from the moment he met Henry he is just such a sweetheart. He never judges him, tries to meet him where he is despite the struggles from Henry and his struggles, and even though there are times they think pursuing anything might not be such a great idea, they always find themselves pulled towards each other, which reminds me of when Henry thinks: "Sometimes ... I think gravity is love, which is why love's only demand is that we fall." Some of my favorite scenes are where Diego takes Henry stargazing, or when they have their first kiss. It's just so nicely written and it will always be the one relationship I will remember reading and thinking to myself maybe I did want one (though again, something more akin to romantic/platonic rather than romantic/sexual), but I digress.

Still, the thing that makes both Michael and Diego stand out so much is the fact of just how deeply they care about Tori and Henry, how they see them and hear them and understand them. It's just beautiful, and I wish I could feel this level of hope again one day. I mean, I remember my first ever quote-unquote review of We Are the Ants. I ended it with such a positive note, how I felt inspired but now, seven years later there isn’t much hope in my opinion. I'm still here, but there seems to be not much. I'm still hoping the fact that I wrote all of this means something. Maybe not me going back to writing about everything I read and watched but more that perhaps more fiction ideas will start to pour out of me. I'm no longer a young adult, and I'm thinking of a story of an asexual grown man, dealing with undiagnosed depression* back on his home town he left quite a few years ago. I guess all I can do is hope.