#tw suicide memory loss existential dread abuse top hat man

[reflectionsforalostsoul]

Time just slips away...

TRIGGER WARNING

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TW Suicide

I’m just not really sure sometimes. Some days I feel okay, and the others I get sad again. My memory loss has affected me greatly. 

I will find a note on my phone or something on a piece of paper that I had deemed important, maybe a moment of inspiration or a message to Ronnie and I no longer have any idea what I am talking about. I found some lovely story notes yesterday that I had written a couple of years ago. I only know the time frame because I like to send myself messages on Facebook so I don’t forget things and happily I stumbled across messages where the names matched up to some of the notes in the notebook. I had been fretting because at the time I wrote the stuff down I had used abbreviations instead of names at times. One I saw repeatedly was MC, which I assumed stood for main character. A logical assumption, right? Yet another I couldn’t figure out. Repeatedly I saw a ™ referenced. Docs keeps correcting this to a trademark symbol (facepalm). 

It has been bothering me a lot. I had done a lot of work and I obviously cared about this character, but couldn’t glean from the notebook what it stood for. I hate writing things by hand, and evidently thought it wasn’t necessary to fully write it out. If I focus really hard I can vaguely recall the inspiration. It is of course mine, there are usually recurring themes in stories that I plan to write. But what did it mean?

Then today in messenger I had typed it out. Swype keyboards are so much faster than writing in pencil, thank god!  Taxi Man. How did I forget that? You obviously don’t know what Taxi Man means, so let me explain it to you, as best my memory can allow. 

My childhood was kind of rough. 

My family was quite poor and my parents didn’t have what you would call a happy marriage. My Father was abusive to everyone in the household. Both mentally and physically. When he was home sometimes it felt like being in a literal nightmare. You know that prickle of terror you feel on the back of your neck in a nightmare sometimes? Or those moments where you were so terrified that when you tried to scream no sound could escape your lips? It was like that sometimes. My Father was prone to mood swings, drank, and abused drugs. He had a myriad of problems, and refused to work. Just to give you some background on my state of mind when I first encountered the Taxi Man. 

So, to say I suffered from depression would be too simple. I was 14 years old and also dealing with normal hormonal changes. Ah..puberty. It will wreck you emotionally. Compound that with irregular periods and you have a recipe for disaster. 

I often thought of suicide. I didn’t really want to die, but I wanted my life as it was currently to end. I was tired of my life. Tired of the abuse. Tired of feeling alone. I cried constantly and did anything I could to avoid going home. My Father and I butted heads frequently. I was the only one in the house who dared stand up to him. 

This wasn’t what you think normal teenage drama is like. I was not rebelling because I wanted a late curfew, this was literally, “How fucking dare you put your hands on my Mother!” I had been terrified of him as a child, but there are only so many times that you can be hurt and pain still work as a fear tactic or parental deterrent. It wasn’t always in defense of my Mother either. Sometimes it was for my little sisters’ sake. 

My Father had quit working when I was about six and a half years old. He was trying to get disability for carpal tunnel, so my Mother got a job full time. My sisters were 2 years and 6 months old, respectively. If you thought my Father was going to change diapers or maintain the house while my Mother worked you’d sadly be mistaken. 

I am not complaining. I was never resentful. I had always been what my Mom called a Mother Hen. I loved my little sisters. So, I changed diapers, gave baths, brushed their hair. I dressed them, tucked them in, and tried to teach them stuff. How many times did I work on ABCs or counting? The situation was a bit confusing for them though. My youngest sister called my Mom frequently, and even the other made that mistake at times. I know it broke my Mother’s heart. She had missed out on the most important time for development in my youngest sister’s life, but there wasn’t anything to do about it. She had no family close by and I think was still trying to maintain appearances about her relationship with my Father. 

My Mother broke my heart. To me she was the most magnificent woman. I knew that I had the prettiest Mom. She had a beautiful singing voice. She was smart. Well read. But so painfully shy. She was that kind of person who couldn’t ever speak up for themselves. I remember being frustrated going to stores with her when I was young because she was too shy to ask an employee for help if she couldn’t find something. We would instead wander for what felt like hours until she managed to find the item she was looking for, or something that would just have to do. I am a protective person, it is just my nature, hence why Mom called me Mother Hen. So eventually I would stop a store employee and ask for her. She never would have asked me to do such a thing, and maybe this embarrassed her at times too. But to watch your parent struggle over such a simple task is heartbreaking. I couldn’t fathom why she had such difficulty speaking. 

But I loved my Mother and would do anything for her, so I decided to be her voice. I was always a rather take charge kind of person. 

So, of course I argued for her sake. I argued for the sisters that I loved in a deeper motherly way. I couldn’t stand how he treated them. It is one thing to pick on someone who can defend themselves, but my Mother and little sisters could not. That was our life. I could go on and on, but it is enough to give you an idea of why I had suicidal ideation. 

So, let me tell you how I met the Taxi Man. It was in a dream. The dream started with me sitting in the front passenger seat of an old fashioned Taxi. From the 1940’s, with pronounced fender flares. 

It was nighttime and we were traveling down a winding road with open fields for as far as the eye could see on either side towards a forest. In the driver seat sat an ancient man wearing a top hat. His shoulder length wispy grey hair was disheveled. A tag hung from the band of his hat, though I don’t know if it said anything at all. It was probably too old to have anything legible on it. His suit was tweed with patches on the elbows. He had a dingy white cravat that I imagine would have fluttered hauntingly if the windows had been cracked. Definitely someone interesting that you would have tried to absorb every detail of, but I was beginning to panic at not knowing how I got there.

“Where are we?” I asked, panic rising in my throat.

That is when he turned and reached towards me. That is when I saw it.

He had no eyeballs. 

His eye sockets were empty aside from small flames. You know that prickle feeling I mentioned earlier? It was happening now. He did not answer me, nor did he touch me. He instead reached past me, opened the glove compartment, and returned his hand to the wheel. I turn from him and look inside and am surprised to see a small television screen. 

It clicks on, and I am unable to look away, for I see myself in my own bedroom. I am sitting on the floor with letters scattered all around me. Mascara courses down my cheeks as I sob uncontrollably. I am unsure. I don’t remember this ever happening. Then the screen darkens again. That is when the Taxi Man spoke. 

“You killed yourself. That is why you are here.”

I quickly glance around and see that we don’t seem to be any closer to the forest, though the car has never stopped moving. The small television blinks back on and I see a funeral. There is a church, my family, and even classmates standing in groups talking quietly. My Mother stands by my casket crying into a scarf. She looks devastated and broken. My sisters are holding her hands, but their heads hang down. They do not lift their gaze even when someone stops to offer condolences. 

Then I see my ex-boyfriend walk in by himself, carrying a white rose. He pauses at the back of the room, the prospect of my casket seeming too much for him to handle. 

“It has not been decided yet.”

“What hasn’t?” I gasped. 

“Where you are going. You’ve killed yourself. I cannot take you to Heaven. So you will have to wait while it is decided. It is going to feel like an eternity.”

Again I noted that the car was not any closer to the forest, though the car kept a steady place. It suddenly made sense.

“Is this purgatory?”

The Taxi Man just nodded, his lips curving slightly. Was it an attempt to smile? I didn’t sense any malice from him. Just eternalness, and maybe… Maybe this was his way of trying to comfort me. The thought of an eternal wait, with your very soul hanging in the balance is quite frightening. 

It was an important dream to me. It felt so real. Like I had been given a warning. I thought of the Taxi Man frequently throughout the years, even sketched him a couple times. I just cannot forget him. I even dreamt of him more recently, though the interaction was not always pleasant. So, how did I not realize what ™ stood for in my notes? It is a frustrating thing. Though I never stay sad for too long. I always forget and move on to some other train of thought. Thanks for listening.