Going On

Theo

“Mental pain is less dramatic than physical pain, but it is more common and also more hard to bear. The frequent attempt to conceal mental pain increases the burden: it is easier to say 'My tooth is aching' than to say 'My heart is broken.'"

― C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain

I picked at my stuffed pepper slowly, as though I was dissecting an animal. Breadcrumbs spilled out and onto the table, making my mother flinch.

I continued my dissection.

The specimen appears to have insides made of ground beef and bread crumbs. The smell is foul. More analysis is needed.

“So how’s the support group?”

I shrugged and continued dissecting.

“Met anyone nice?” My father asked, desperately trying to clean his plate of my mother’s sub-par cooking while still managing to convince her that, yes, he really did enjoy it.

I thought about Noelle. About her soft smile, the way she giggled around me, the way she always had her hair in a messy bun.

“I met this girl, but that’s it.”

My mom perked up and grinned at me, raising her blond eyebrows to a point that it made me severely uncomfortable.

“Ohhh, a girl?”

I nodded slowly, flicking bits of onion out of the pepper. I hated the stuff.

“What does she look like?”

“Brown hair, really pale. She always wears her hair in a bun. She’s really cute.”

I thought about the gauze on her arms that she showed me today, of the hidden scars that I couldn’t see underneath. How she must’ve felt when she brought the blade over her arms, in hard X’s, but not quite hard enough.

I stared back at my pepper to keep from tearing up.

“What’s she like?”

I smiled, but they couldn’t see it. Only the pepper could see it, if it had eyes. I really hoped it didn’t.

God, I’m a fucking idiot.

I looked up, still smiling, but not quite as much.

“She um... She’s really nice, and really shy. She tells these really dumb jokes that are really funny, and she’s kind of dark-humored, and... I don’t know.”

I smiled again, laughing to myself as I thought about her.

“She’s just... She’s really awesome.” I finished.

My dad stayed stoic, but my mother smiled.

“She sounds nice, dear,” she said.

“She is.”

“Maybe she’d like to come over sometime?”

I thought about it.

Well, we’ll have to hide all the knives. And the toaster. And all the poetry books. We’ll probably have to take all the belts, and all the shoelaces.

“I don’t think she gets out much,” I said.

“All the more reason to invite her over, then!” My mother said, raising her hands in a grand gesture, as though she was going to bring down the sky itself to give to Noelle as a welcoming gift.

“She doesn’t like leaving her house, is what I meant.”

“Why?”

I shrugged.

“She’s like me. I don’t like leaving much, either.” I said, picking at my pepper and trying to will myself to take a bite. I couldn’t do it.

“Well, let her know we’d like to have her over sometime, okay?”

“Alright.”

Mom looked at the cable box and took a bite of her pepper.

“Medicine time,” she muttered.

I got up and walked to the medicine drawer, pulling out my bottle of Zoloft. I read the warning on the side:

Do not take with alcohol.

I smirked.

Well, if I ever need it, that’s my way out.

I took my pill and walked back to the table, drinking my glass of water.

“Is it helping?”

“Is what helping?” I asked.

“The Z,” my mother replied.

“Z?”

“Yes. Z.”

“Why don’t you just say ‘Zoloft?’ Is it that embarrassing to you?”

She scoffed, drinking her wine.

“I’m not embarrassed of you! You just have a little problem with anxiety, that’s all. You needed a little help.”

“No, I don’t ‘just have a little problem with anxiety.’ I tried to kill myself, for fuck’s sake. That’s not a ‘little problem.’ Hell, even thinking about killing yourself isn’t a ‘little problem.’ Burning toast, for most people, would be a ‘little problem.’ For me, it’s a ‘big problem.’ So failing a test due to my ‘little problem with anxiety,’ for most people, would be a ‘big problem.’ For me, that’s an ‘end my life problem.’ To say that to me, and act as though I’m being a baby about everything? That’s a ‘fuck you problem.’”

My dad snapped out of his chair and pointed at my room.

“ROOM. NOW.”

“Don’t worry, I’m going.”

My mom stared at the table and didn’t say a word.

“Oh, before I go. You may want to hide the alcohol tonight.”