#And to be clear I’m talking about serious self deprecation shit and suicidal thoughts and such

[chartreuxcatz]

I feel like we need to bring back the concept of. Private journals. Writing things down on paper or in a word document that you never share or post or show people except maybe a therapist if it’s helpful. Because then you get all the benefits of putting your thoughts into words and being able to look over them later, without making other people feel like shit because they can’t help you. Or you feeling like shit when people give you sympathy because “I don’t want your pity or to make anyone worried.” My friend what do you think is going to happen when you say something concerning in public.

Like. Sometimes its nice to vent where people can see and show their support, and I get that. But look at your follower count. Look at that number. Remember that number is real actual people. Now imagine if you said something super personal and worrisome in a room full of that many people.

[sportafreddie]

Consultation Hours: Chap. 2

Relationships: Joseph Christiansen/Dadsona Additional Tags: Dadsona was a soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Mentioned Amputation, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Depression, Religious Content, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Identity Porn, Panic Attacks, Prosthesis, Past Character Death, Canonical Character Death Summary: “Darin (Dadsona) goes to the church’s anonymous consultation hours because he is at the end of his rope. Joseph Christiansen tries to help him. In the process, he might end up helping himself too… .

“Um, now that I’m here again, I remember you didn’t actually tell me how I’m supposed to start. I know you said it’s not a confessional, but there has to be some kind of, I don’t know, opening I ought to follow. Forgive me not-father, I haven’t sinned, but I’m still feeling like shit and last time actually did help, so here I am again.”

There is no reply. After a few minutes of sitting surrounded by silence, I shift in my seat and look at my phone again. I took a picture of the poster Joseph had put up next to the door, since I was prone to forgetting such things as numbers, dates, faces and names, and I’m definitely on time. I certainly wouldn’t have pecked Joseph as someone who was ever late.

Just as I start to think about leaving again, I hear footsteps hurrying towards the box. The next moment, the door to the other half is opened and in steps a familiar figure. “I’m so terribly sorry,” Joseph says. “I had to attend to some important matters at home. I hope you weren’t waiting for too long.”

He sounds out of breath, like he ran here, but there is also an undertone to his voice, a tension that would be easy to miss. Something tells me those matters at home weren’t of the nice kind.

I clear my throat and Joseph startles. The fact that our roles from a few weeks ago are now reversed makes me chuckle. “Hello, Joseph.”

I do not expect him to recognise me immediately, but he does. “Houdini!” Wait, why does he sound relieved? “I was worried when you didn’t show up again, but part of me hoped that means you were finally doing better... How are you?”

“Well. In my improvised opening lines, I said I feel like shit, so…”

“Improvised… opening lines?”

Heat rushes into my cheeks. Suddenly, I’m very, very happy he wasn’t there to hear it. “Doesn’t matter.” I exhale shakily and rub the back of my head. Amanda cut my hair a few days ago. The edges are uneven, but it’s much better than the mess of too-long-hair I had before; it had reminded me too much of my time in hospital. “I’m… not good. At all. I can’t remember the last time I slept for more than two hours. Though to be fair, I kind of avoid sleeping, because of the nightmares.”

“What do you dream about, Houdini?”

I laugh dryly. “The stereotypical things. Shouting, crying, gunshots, bombs. The day I lost my leg. Blood. Smoke in my lungs. Do you smoke?”

“I used to,” he replies after a beat. Even as he says it, I can hear he isn’t sure whether he should even talk about it. “When I was young. But not anymore.”

“What made you stop?”

Joseph shifts in his seat. “My wife’s pregnancy. When she showed me the pregnancy test and it was positive, I threw away all my cigarettes and quit cold-turkey.”

“I smoked before the accident. Most people in my squad did. Helped you keep calm, kept the fears and the anxiety at bay, you know? I was bedridden for so long after they cut off my leg, I detoxed without meaning to. Once I was on my feet—“ I snort. “—on my foot again, I bought myself some cigarettes and wanted to smoke, but the scent and the taste… it brought me right back to that day, so I stopped for good. It’s kind of funny. My husband always wanted me to quit, said it’s bad for my lungs, and there I came back from duty and stopped.”

It isn’t funny, not one bit, but I still laugh. It’s the kind of self-deprecating, dark humour that doesn’t go well at parties and only makes things worse. Joseph doesn’t laugh along; I can see him look at me and can feel his concern even without actually seeing him.

“Not your kind of humour?”

Joseph chuckles. “What gave it away?” I don’t give a reply, but the question doesn’t need one anyway. When he speaks again, Joseph’s tone of voice is less carefree and more serious again. “Is there anything you can pinpoint that would explain why your mood dropped so drastically the last weeks?”

“I can only guess it’s the change of scenery. New neighbourhood, new faces… well, mostly.”

“What do you mean?”

I smile and flex my hands. “My old roommate from college now lives in the area, too, not so far away from my own house. It’s crazy. I haven’t heard from him ever since I was deployed and now we meet again, after so many years.”

Joseph’s silence lasts a touch too long. I frown and try to read him through the wall that separates us, but only seeing the outlines of his body, it’s practically impossible. “Something the matter?”

He jerks as if he’d been lost in thought and shakes his head. “It just reminded me of something I overheard in my neighbourhood, don’t worry about it.” He clears his throat. “Moving away from the environment you are familiar with, trying to make a life somewhere new, can be very difficult and stressful, even for people without your experiences. What I think could help you is to get out of your house and meet the people in the area. Forging new bonds of friendship might help you feel at home and that in turn might improve your mood. That is not to say all your problems can be attributed to how you feel, but what we do and who we surround ourselves with plays a large role in how much our problems affect us. If you don’t do anything to try and break free of that vicious cycle, if you keep doing the same thing over and over again, it’s only going to get worse. At the very least, it certainly won’t get any better.”

“Speaking from experience?” I find myself asking, because there had been something about the way Joseph said it that set off my Dad senses. Trust your instincts, our sergeants had always told us, a lesson I keep close to my heart.

Joseph chuckles. Even someone without my people reading skills would have been able to tell it was fake. “No, unless we count counselling people whose situations improved after they did something.”

“Joseph,” I say, but then pause. It’s none of my business whether he speaks from experience or doesn’t; we’re here because I want him to counsel me, not the other way around. I shift in my seat and sigh. “Look, call me paranoid or something, but I feel like there are things that bother you, too, and if you are to be believed, then talking about your issues helps. You don’t know me, I know next to nothing about you, ‘s not like I could use whatever you told me against you. There’s clearly something going on with you. Wouldn’t it be kind of hypocritical if you didn’t listen to your own advice?”

The youth minister is silent. I can see him looking down at his hands, stiff like a stick, and wonder whether I took things too far. I’d always been blunt, direct; the military only made that trait of mine worse. If asked, I wouldn’t be able to tell how many times I had to do extra lapses because I stepped on my superiors’ toes.

I open my mouth to apologise, but Joseph beats me to it. “I’ll think about it.”

He sounds sincere about it, so I drop the topic.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“Have you met any of the other neighbours yet?”

I stopped for a moment to stretch and rubbed my prosthetic leg through the fabric of my track pants. Craig came to a halt next to me, wiping the sweat off his forehead. It was still surreal to think that it was Kegstand Craig standing there, the same man who once drank a whole jar of marinara sauce and claimed it was a fruit smoothie. He was so much fitter, so much healthier now than he had been during their time in college and what rough edges had been there all those years ago were refined now. Both of them had changed so much. Whenever I looked at him, I remembered the man I used to be and something inside my chests constricts painfully.

“No.” I grunted out. “I always seem to miss them when I go out. But one of the neighbours dropped by and said hello the first day, though Amanda answered the door, not me.”

Craig chuckled. “I can guess who that was. Did he drop off an invitation for barbeque?” I nod. “That was Joe. He tends to invite us all at least once a month and let me tell you, the man makes a mean burger. Speaking of the barbeque, why didn’t you come to the last one?”

I paused mid-stretch, arms behind my head, and looked down at the ground. Because the mere thought of leaving the bed and having to deal with people made me want to throw up. I didn’t say that out loud. Craig might have noticed something about me was different since college, but no one went to war and came back unchanged, and a lot of time had passed. I saw no use in telling him about my problems sleeping, eating and living; I had the consultation hour with Joseph for that. Why tell him about that, when you didn’t even tell him about your missing leg. “You know how it is. Amanda and I unpacked our stuff and tried to put everything where it belongs.”

Craig hummed. “Yeah, a house doesn’t feel like home with a dozen boxes standing around. I guess I’ll accept that reason this once, bro.” He nudged my shoulder with his fist and grinned at me. “But only if you promise to come to the next one. All cul-de-sac families show up there, even Robert Small.” There it was, that faint blush that always came whenever Craig talked about that mysterious neighbour. He hadn’t outright said it, yet, but I could tell he was crushing hard on that man. He might have changed since college, but the signs were still the same, and I had been there when he got together with Smashley.

I lightly kicked against his leg, then got back running. We were on our way back from our morning run and I could already see my house again. Joseph’s words rang in my ears. “If you keep doing the same thing over and over again, it’s only going to get worse. At the very least, it certainly won’t get any better.” I had to admit, ever since I accepted Craig’s invitation, I did feel a little bit better. The exercise helped tire out my body; most days, I managed to sleep after I came back. Not for long, but it certainly was an improvement.

We passed the house right next to mine, when a blond man in a pink shirt and brown khakis opened the front door and went to retrieve the newspaper. Craig waved at him and gave me a look that I interpreted as “That’s Joe”, so I waved too. Joe looked like he thought about approaching us to talk, but a voice calling from inside the house put a damper on his plan. He waved at us and turned to go back. For a moment, something akin to dread flashed over his face, but it was gone so quickly again, I might as well have imagined it.

I decided not to dwell on it and followed Craig up to his porch, where we decided on the next time we’d run together and exchanged our goodbyes. Limping slightly, I made my way back into the house. I couldn’t shake off the feeling that someone was watching me until I closed the door behind me.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

I didn’t know why the nightmares returned after leaving me alone for so long. My new routine with Craig had worked so well, part of me, that optimistic self Alex somehow managed to ingrain deep within my soul, had hoped they would never come back.

You would be so lucky, huh.

I was up and on my feet before my brain could even register and send the urge to scream down to my vocal chords. Blindly, I searched for the nearest wall and used that to keep me upright. The wallpaper felt different, rough under my fingers, almost like stone or sand. When I opened my mouth to gasp for breath, I could taste sand on my tongue, sand and wind and blood. I wanted to scream, but my throat was too dry, not a sound came out.

I have to get outside. Out. I need fresh air. Out—

My body functioned on auto-pilot. I grabbed the nearest jacket and shrugged it on, pressing my cheek against the soft fabric that was so different from the army-issued uniform, it helped ground me. The last remnants of my nightmare were still echoing in my brain as I opened the front door and stepped out into the cold night. It was dark, except for the streetlamps that created little circles of light in a perfectly uniform spacing.

Panicked, I made it to the street before my legs gave in and I landed on my knees. My leg-stump protested, since the position made my prosthesis dig painfully into my skin. The pain only made things worse. Before my mind’s eyes flashed gunshots. I heard screaming, shouted orders and the distinct sound of an automatic rifle near me. All sound, however, is drowned out by the loud boom of a frag grenade. Someone screamed. Belatedly, I realise it’s me. I’m on my back and there’s blood, so much blood, and pain, my leg feels like it’s on fire, there are hands holding me down, someone is shouting orders, but all I can hear is my own, deafening scream.

That is, until a voice breaks through the haze. Somehow, it sounds familiar, but I cannot put a finger on it. It is soothing, like the gentle caress of water, and takes away the flames that eat at my leg.

“Did you have a nightmare, neighbour?”

A beat. Two. Then I scrambled to my feet. Joe followed suit, hands anxiously hovering near me in case I would fall down again. The beating of my heart is so loud, I’m certain he could hear it too.

Numbly, I nodded, rubbing my face and wiping away my tears. I closed my eyes and lay my head back. For a few minutes, all I did was breathe. The taste of sand and blood was replaced by that of the sea, mixed with something uniquely Maple Bay; my hands stopped shaking and my heartbeat slowed down. When I opened my eyes again, Joe was still standing there, watching me.

“I’m okay,” I croaked out. My voice was at least an octave deeper than it normally was, thanks to my silent screaming and crying. “Thanks.”

“Want to talk about it?”

I shook my head, then jerked it towards the pavement. He followed without a comment, even sat down next to me as I got comfortable in the grass. It was wet, not hot and dry like sand. “Why are you awake?”

Joe shrugged, his shoulder bumping against mine. “Couldn’t sleep. Perhaps because my instincts told me someone needed company.”

I snorted. The idea was so absurd, it might as well have been true. I had long ago given up on trying to understand the inner workings of the world. Otherwise, I might have gone crazy searching for a reason why me, of all people.

You know why.

Neither of us said anything, but the silence was comfortable. An hour passed without a spoken word passing between us; half an hour later, as the first rays of sunlight emerged from beneath the ocean, Joe stood up and stretched. He offered me his hand; it was rough and calloused, spoke of strength that I wouldn’t have thought he possessed.

“If you ever need to talk to someone, you know where you can find me. Try to get some sleep, okay?”

I nodded and, instead of saying anything, gave his hand a squeeze. He turned and walked back into his house. I followed his example and returned inside, heading straight to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for Amanda.

As I stood there, making pancakes, a thought struck me. Joe’s voice sounded awfully familiar. I wrote it off as mistaken memories, which was better than accusing my mind of playing tricks on me, and forgot about it.

“Hey, ‘manda,” I said as I heard shuffling feet behind me. A moment later, she kissed my cheek and stole one of the pancakes from the plate.

“Morning, Dad. You awake already?”

“I fell asleep early last night.”

After the breakfast, while cleaning the pan, I happened to look out of the window, just in time to see Joe in his garden. Our eyes met. I smiled and waved. There was a strange feeling low in my belly as his face lit up and he waved back.

I dropped my eyes and checked my phone. I decided it was time to go see Joseph again, after what happened.

[thesevibesmyguys]

Death (a memoir)

Death has always fascinated me for years now. What happens after we die I’ve always thought was unprovable; it’s not like you can just die and come back to tell the tale. It’s an abyss, a sort of unknown region that all sorts of religions claim to know enough about. But that made no sense at all, for religions would just contradict each other’s claims and it’d just be a huge mess of speculation. So it was sophomore year of high school where I seriously considered my first suicide attempt. My best friend ostracized me, schoolwork piled on too much pressure and very little help from my counselors ever made a real difference. My parents were fundamentalist Christians and pushed God on me to answer all my problems but I was ignostic and couldn’t even know what an incorporeal being was like. 

Life was just shit. Every friend I made, I lost subsequently in several months or a couple years at most. I was good at everything that employers could care less about, like drawing cute girls and writing poetry. I just lost it one night where I almost tried cutting myself in the jugular with a steak knife in the kitchen, but I knew it wouldn’t be an instant death. I had no resources to shoot myself, hang myself, or was close to anywhere I could jump from a high place or drown in a deep enough river. I was hopeless, so I kept going to school, raging at the frustrations of my daily life in more agony than I needed to.

Coincidentally, a friend of the friend who sat across from me in class killed himself just a few months earlier. When I saw the look on his face the morning he found out, it was blank, static, and about to burst into waves of unfiltered grief. So many people in school apparently knew the freshman, and the mourning of his memory still goes on after all these years. I faced that friend in class every other morning for the rest of the year and even though we were close, I couldn’t bear to think what might happen if I told him my suicidal intentions were getting more and more serious. I did have one person to talk to, but even after hours of texting, nothing really came of it. So, I just suffered through day after day of inconvenience after inconvenience, the repetitive nature of my daily life was taking its toll on me and I just had to end it. Seemingly everyday activities were just outright uncomfortable and frustrating. So you can imagine the nap I took once I got home from the last day of school that year. I just screamed all my hatred away, all the hatred bottled up after a year of self-deprecation. 

Junior year was a fresh start, I thought. I met this girl from Arizona who was new to our school and I tried being her friend as school started. It was all well and good; we were both in the same English class and we helped each other out. After a few weeks, she eventually started sitting with her friends from theater at lunch, and I was thinking “Oh, she’s found her true group of friends, I’ll just leave her alone” and yet she gradually stopped facing me in class. She started almost ignoring me, but not enough to be rude. If I remember right, someone in her family or friend circle died; she never told me anything about it, but I could easily tell by her lifeless expression in class one day, and in the way I saw one of her friends hug her in consolation. She skipped class more frequently and got the bare minimum on many of our quizzes and tests. It was later in the school year, however, when we were assigned seats right across from each other that I grew confused. She couldn’t bother to make eye contact or in any way communicate to me at all for months afterwards. She would blatantly ignore anything I asked her and if I touched something on her desk to get her attention, she’d mutter something under her breath and look away, putting it back. She had a bright attitude towards every one else in class, except for me, and she never explained why.

It wasn’t until the following summer once I realized she might’ve seen the post I put up on instagram about how I used to be suicidal and meant to reach out to anyone who wants to talk about it if they were comfortable to do so. I even got praise from some popular kids in school for how thoughtful it was, but I took it down after a day or so. My theory was that she must’ve seen the post, had the idea that I’m casually talking about suicide and that that’s inherently misguided, and couldn’t bear to see me anymore thinking about the people in her family she must’ve lost to suicide who she held so dear. I think that’s the case since she had a suicide prevention link in her bio, but in any case, I had a feeling she had some recent, strong opinion about suicide. The hole in my theory is that if we were both promoting suicide prevention, why does she ostracize me?

As much as I wanted to figure that out, I could never muster up the courage to ask her directly, and since the last day of junior year, I never really saw her again all that much.

Senior year rolled around, and it was almost the first week of school, one of my best friend’s parents found out she’s been drinking alcohol one night and she wasn’t allowed to see her boyfriend anymore, nor even go to school since she was expelled. She cut off friendships with people who knew her address, including me, since an anonymous letter in the mail is how her parents found out. And there it was, I haven’t even started the school year and I already lost another close friend. After applying to college, getting accepted, and taking my last AP exams that year, my suicidal tendencies slightly subsided. However, they came back in full force every now and then, and in many moments of pensive reflection, I thought back to all the good friendships I used to have in life before they were cut off by distance, misunderstandings, or simply just different evolving values. I grew more and more isolated, knowing that I’ll lose all my friends anyway once I’m off in college in a few months. 

So here I am, it’s summer again, and I still think about suicide every single day in an indifferent but sometimes fascinated light. I think about death in all its forms, from the death of social bonds, to the death of memes and other phenomena. It’s amazing I’ve made it this far, but I knew this was coming. College is another fresh start; everything matters now that classes have to be paid for and test retakes are less likely to happen. But I can’t retake high school; not that I would, but I can’t correct my past shortcomings and naivety. Life still feels pretty meaningless though; I still have no clue how to prove that God exists nor if there’s an afterlife or anything, but I can feel alive. I can see the world for what it is, beautiful or wretched, clear or baffling, bright or dark, everything that happens will always have some mystery to it or something inconvenient. Just knowing I’ve done something meaningful with my time is, in a sense, what life is meant for, and what death makes necessary.