Angst (40 page)

“I’ve always felt ugly, ever since I was a little girl, I’ve
felt self-conscious and unattractive. I was teased, so I guess that has
something to do with it. I had glasses, braces, bad skin, none of that helped
make me feel like everyone else. Plus I had this inner stigma, this inner stain
that made me different. I have a hard time looking in the mirror and seeing
what is really there or what everyone else sees,” I pause for a second, unable
to stop my mouth, unable to stop running away with words. “Actually, with most
of the guys I’ve dated I’ve felt like I…I wasn’t good enough for them or good
looking enough. I guess self-confidence has something to do with it too. It’s
hard to convince someone that you are attractive when you don’t think so
yourself. I really can’t…explain any of it, Jared, it’s just the way I feel. It’s
me, screwy, damaged me.” I take a breath, barely able to continue through the
tears, the sobs that are taking my breath away. I gasp in a breath and then
continue on.

“Babe, how can I live this way? How can I expect love from
someone…when I can’t love myself, when I hate my life and can’t control my
thoughts and emotions? I’m wicked depressed. Everything is wrong, everything is
bad. Everything is so bad that honestly the idea of death is appealing because
it’s a kind of release, a kind of peace and quiet from my life. It’s like
sleeping. I like sleeping because I can get away from myself for a little
w-while. What I don’t understand…is h-how whenever I wake up in the morning, I
am always…me. Same old, fucked up, piece of shit, annoy...ing, predictable,
emotional, over-reacting m-me. I’m fucking SICK OF IT!! I want…to be someone
else or I want to…d-die.” I’m sobbing harder now, barely able to pull a breath
into my lungs, rushing through my words. I feel out of control, crazy and
emotional. I grip the phone tightly, tears streaming over my face, my eyes
blurring, my head aching. I can’t believe I am letting him see this crazy
fucked up side of me. It’s embarrassing, but I can’t seem to stop the train
wreck.

“Babe, I don’t know what to say to you. I want to help you,
but this stuff is all in your head and it’s not true. You are normal. Every
worry you have is normal, you just take it to another level. And I don’t like
to hear you talk about death like that. Promise me you will never kill
yourself. Promise me, right now, damn it. You mean a lot to me, please, please,
please don’t talk this way. You have so many reasons to live, you are special. You
are beautiful, creative, smart, funny, caring, compassionate, and affectionate.
There are so many things I love about you. Please don’t talk about suicide.”

“I don’t know…w-wha-what to say to you. Death sounds…
appealing, fucking…k-kind. My entire life is tinged with panic, not even
tinged, completely overwhelmed, e-engulfed by it. Everything…is all in my head.
Everything would be o-okay if I didn’t have to live in here with m-myself. I
don’t think there is anything else…I can do. I feel like I’m at the end of what
I can deal with on a daily basis. What other option do I have now to stop this?
I can live in fear…stay home, alienate all my friends, you, my family, everyone
important to me, or I can… kk-kill myself. I am helpless, hopeless. My only
option is to get on med-i-cation. I hate…that option. Everything is hateful. I
just want to sob and sob and sob and beat myself up and curl up in a ball and
dis-a…disappear. I swear God hates…me and wants me to be miserable. I don’t
know why. I don’t know why I’m cursed like this.”

“Victoria, don’t fuck with me! Swear to me right now that
you will not kill yourself! You are NOT fucked in the head. You might
over-exaggerate, but your fears are normal ones. Everyone feels that way at
some point. Do NOT talk about killing yourself, Victoria!” he yells into the
phone and I can tell he’s freaking out.
Jesus Christ, fine.
I’ll lie to
him. Tell him what he wants to hear so he’ll leave me alone and not come
driving over to my parents’ house in a crazy frantic rush to stop me from
pulling the trigger. I’m really good at lying.
Wow.
But I don’t want any
drama. This is personal. This is my choice and no one can interfere.

“Oh God, Jared, I can’t really…k-kill myself. Honestly. I
can’t do it. I can think about it, dream about it, but I can’t do it. It’s too
s-scary, too serious.”

“Victoria, you’d better be telling me the truth. I’m coming
over to your parents’ house, right now. Don’t do anything until I get there,”
he says.

“Fine,” I say and hang up the phone. It rings again within
moments but I don’t answer and I can tell that I’ve caused drama anyway and now
he’s rushing over. He doesn’t believe me.

#######################

After our conversation I continue to lie on the floor,
depression sliding over me, heavy and real, tears seeping from between my
closed eye lids. What am I going to do? How can I continue like this? I have to
stop drinking all the time, I have to stop living in fear. I’ve just admitted
everything to Jared, my mouth running away with itself, exposing my inner crazy.
How humiliating it is to think of now, how utterly despicable, I’m even more
hated now, more despised.
Can I really leave that hot crazy mess as his last
thoughts of me?

Now it’s suddenly clear to me that I’m on a time line right
now.
Thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes to make up my mind. Ten to ponder,
five to take action, leaving me some wiggle room.

It’s as if I have to finally come to terms with what is
happening to me, finally admit that it’s bigger than me. The problem is that
there’s no happy ending. There is no admitting anything joyfully or finally
feeling free. This is me, beaten down, held prisoner by my mental defect, about
to drown under its weight as it holds me thrashing under water. What is left
for me? I have to ask some hard questions. I have to decide what’s important to
me.
Life or death.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to gain some
warmth, reaching up to dash away my hot tears.

What are the questions? Do I want to live? Can I possibly be
normal? Do I want to have a boyfriend and friends and be able to live a normal
life? Or do I want to stop suffering completely, but at the same time end my
own life?

How can I continue to let it hold me down like this? If
there’s an answer, shouldn’t I try to find it? Is the answer to end everything,
all my hopes and dreams, my very existence or is there some other way? Would
getting outside help be admitting failure or would it be reaching out toward
hope?

I try to imagine my future, but all I can see is the panic. It’s
engulfed me now completely. Victoria no longer exists, only the monster,
the
fear,
has hold now. The idea of embarrassing myself, of my entire life
being a game to try to keep myself safe makes me feel sick.
Fuck this. Fuck
everything. I don’t want to live this way anymore.
I don’t want to admit to
someone that I have a problem. I don’t want to take a pill every day. I don’t
want to risk a DUI by drinking and driving since it’s the only way I can leave
the house. I want to end my suffering, immediately.
Now.
I want to end
my all-consuming self-hate. I want to stop feeling the way I do physically. I’m
done.

The shiny gun glints again in the light and I thank my
father for keeping a loaded gun in a gun case in his room, which I just happen
to know how to unlock.
Smart girl,
at least I’m good for something. And
thanks to Dad for taking me shooting as a child. I pull the gun even closer
until it’s a blurry silver and black object lying next to my head.
God I
don’t want to do this…but I feel like I have to.
I touch the cold metal and
imagine the blackness, the soothing quiet, the calm. I want it. No more messy
life, no more time skipping by faster and faster, no more peer pressure, no
more obligations, no more misery, no more alcohol. No more body. Freedom.
I
want it.
I lift the heavy gun, hand on the trigger. It’s hard to end your
own life, the trigger feels resistant, like it doesn’t want to be pulled. I
guess you come in to this life hard and you leave hard too. I set the gun back
down and scooch the barrel up near my head, cold metal against my hot skin,
like a cold kiss. One pull. Blackness. Like a mother’s arms. Comfort.

How funny it is to think that I came into this panic life in
a blast of blinding white light from the shuttle lift off and I’m about to go
out the same way.

Just as I finger the resistant trigger again, pointer finger
against springy metal, my thoughts race on. What about the good stuff? What
about the potential life I might have? Thoughts fly through me, my future,
thoughts of Jared, friends, my mom and dad, family. My future. It’s mine. It’s
mine and I am going to throw it away. I imagine myself getting married, landing
my first job, having a baby, growing old, experiences that I will never have if
I pull this trigger. My existence would have consisted of just this, this misery,
these tears, this problem, never a chance for things to get better, never a
chance for real happiness, never a chance to grow wiser and smarter. Life is
hard.
Life is shit, but it’s my life.
My choice. Things can’t get worse,
but they could get better? I know my life will always be tinged with panic, I
am certain of that, but isn’t this letting it win? Isn’t this the worst thing I
can do, to let the panic force me to end my own life? I can’t let it win this
way, can I? Tears course faster, I’m gulping for air now. I don’t want to die. I
don’t. I hate this. This is my life, my one chance.
MINE!!!

I push the gun away in disgust.
Shit…I can’t do it! I
can’t. I want to live.
I’ve never wanted anything more. I will do whatever
it takes to make my impression on this world more than some scared as shit girl
who took the easy way out. I will fight it. I must. I can’t let it win. Hasn’t
that always been my motto, to be stronger than the monster, the fear, to never
ever let it win? It might be horrible, it might be holding me prisoner, but how
can I let it convince me to kill myself?! How can I give it that kind of power
over me? My life right now sucks, that is true, but haven’t I had some good
times in the past? Couldn’t I look forward to some good times in the future?

My thoughts skitter on, relief washing over me. I can’t kill
myself. Deep down I knew I couldn’t do it. What can I do? What about the
medication? Is that my answer? I still don’t like it, but it’s beginning to
look like more of a savior. I want Jared. I want my friends and family. I want
to feel happy and good again. I want to be able to leave the house without
feeling sick, without being terrified of every situation. If it takes seeing my
doctor, admitting what’s going on and asking to be put on a medication, than
maybe that is what I should to do. There is no other option. I’m in crisis.

Would getting on medication be a form of fighting back
against the demons? I’m beginning to convince myself it could be. I don’t want
to continue thinking that I’m admitting failure. Wanting life, using whatever
means necessary to feel normal, can’t be a failure, can it?

Sometimes in life you have to ask for help, right? Sometimes
things are so bad that there is no other option? I’m willing to admit that I’m
at that point and I’m too angry about missing out on life to let it hurt me
anymore. I’ve always seen medication as the fool’s way out, the easy way out
for people with no spine. But my life is more important to me right now than
some kind of psychological mind game. Medication is available and I’m a fool
not to take advantage.

Hasn’t Jared just proven to me how amazing he is? He stands
by me. He listens to my ravings and he tries to reason with me, so do my
parents, my baby brother, everyone who really knows me and loves me. They want
me to be better, but they are also willing to deal with my shit. I need them, I
want them and in order to make me happy, to regrasp life, medication is
necessary. It doesn’t have to be forever. It just has to get me through this
rough time. My decision is made, I’m going to do it. I will get on medication
so I can start living again.

I sit up quickly, leaving the cold floor behind, determined
to see this thing through. I wipe away my final tears and struggle to my feet
from the floor, rubbing life back into my cold arms. I will set up the
appointment and my anxiety can
fuck itself
.

Back upstairs I open the front door and stare through the
glass, eyes squinting at the bright light. The world is very green, vibrant. This
is what life looks like. Sparkling, bright, real, beautiful. I step outside
into the sunshine and feel it warm my face, as a soft breeze caresses me. I
just stand there, face up, letting the warmth sink into my cold body and his
car comes careening up the driveway and skids to a halt at the end of the
walkway. He’s out of the car in an instant, up the path and I’m in his arms and
he’s kissing my face. Kissing my red, tear stained face. I am alive.
I
choose life.

A week later as I leave a stressful day at work, finally
walking out the door and into the warm June air, I notice that I have a message
on my phone. It’s Jared, telling me that he’d like to see me after work,
inviting me to stop by his apartment. I feel my stomach tense up.
I have to
go.
Jared wants to see me and there is nothing I would like better, except
I’m feeling panicked by the mere idea of even driving to his house and getting
out of the car. Work was a long day today, the panic still aggressive, since my
medication hasn’t started working yet, so I’m pretty on edge. But I’m gonna try
to go, I have to at least try to overcome this thing.

Once in my car, I start hyper focusing on panic, on “what
if” scenarios where I embarrass myself completely.
Don’t do this to me!
I
pinch my thigh with my nails.
Don’t start this.
The trip is only 15
minutes. But it feels like every mile I drive is injecting more and more fear
into my body and mind, like the drip of a catheter. But instead of helping,
it’s killing me, causing me to focus inside, my mind swarming over every
negative, out of control feeling, every sickness, every quiver and shake, every
shudder. I can’t breathe.