Parks & Cafés

AndYou

Possible TRIGGER WARNING; mild talk about suicide.

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Some nights I cried myself to sleep. Some nights my sadness would not allow me to sleep. Some nights it was all too much to deal with, but I would still smile in the faces of those who cared the next morning and say, "No no, I'm fine. I just didn't get much sleep."

I didn't know you had those nights. I didn't know that I could put words to a feeling that I never got the courage to accept as my own. I never felt brave enough to say that I am sad. I never felt brave enough to own it.

The night air was free of sound, as it seemed to be most nights. My sleep was restless. I tossed and turned every few minuets in failed attempts to make myself comfortable enough to fell asleep. It wasn't hard to tell that sleep had become a luxury I could no longer afford. 

A sight pressed through my lips as I gave up altogether. I sat up and allowed my eyes to adjust to the darkness around me. A small beam of light crept from underneath the door. I heard a light footfall that ended next door. I assumed I wasn't the only one having trouble sleeping that night.

Within the darkness the screen of my phone illuminated as it had done many times before. I knew it was you. It was always you. I didn't fight my smile as I picked up the phone and answered it. 

"Hey." I said faintly as I laid back onto the mattress. 

"What are you're thoughts on suicide?" 

I didn't flinch, or panic, or even jump up from where I laid. As a matter of fact, I remember smiling just a bit. You always asked me these bazaar questions, but never one that felt so dark. But when you did that night it didn't scare me. 

I remained sprawled out across my bed. My eyes on the ceiling as I tried to gather my thoughts.

"I-" I lightly bit my lower lip in thought. My free hand ruffled through my hair and a soft sigh left my lips once more. "What d' you mean?" I said, lazily. 

I heard you breathing on the other end of the phone. I could tell that you were in thought yourself. 

"If I were to tell you that I was about to kill myself," you paused. "Hypothetically speaking." There was another small paused. "What would you say?"

"I would tell you that you should't."

"Yes, but why?" I could hear you sitting up. The footsteps had returned within the hallway, causing a short break in the light that entered my bedroom. "Because you believe I shouldn't, or because society says you should say no?"

The question was becoming a bit loaded, but I felt I owed you an answer at this point. I let out a small breath as I sat up. My hand wiped over my face as I thought for a short while before saying, "both."

"Continue." 

I ran my fingers through my hair once more and adjusted  myself again. "I would say, it gets better, because that's what society tells me to say." I flashed a sad smile. "Society teaches us to put the feelings of others before our own. So I might also add in, it's selfish because I'll miss you. Not understanding that that's also selfish." I stood to my feet and began to pace. "I might say that, it's a permanent solution to a temporary problem." My bare feet become familiar with the carpet. "I would tell you how much potential you have. How smart you are. How it would be a waste."

"Is that society talking?"

"Of course it is."

"What would you say?" You said. "On your own."

I stopped in the middle of the room. My feet firm on the floor as I tried to sort through my thoughts again. 

Depression was my dirty little secret. I never spoke about it with anyone. I wasn't the type to want attention upon; whether it be good or bad. Depression brought forth the pity of others. Pity that I did not want. It made them treat me differently. It made them treat me as if I was fragile or broken and in need of repair. It brought me nothing but fake friends and pats on the back as they told me to, "stay strong," as if I was weak. These recycled words did more harm then good, but that's what society teaches people about depression. Leaving those who never truly experience it ignorant to the truth.

"Stay strong," never motivated me. "A permanent solution to a temporary problem," never got me to second guess myself. "You have so much potential," never made me want to live longer. "You are so smart," as if people who are less than smart don't deserve to live.

And my personal favorite, "it gets better," when? When does mental illness decide to just up and get better? When do all the memories stop plaguing me? When does my mind learn to catch and release? The truth was-

"Sofía?"

You brought me back to earth. I was only inches away from breaking down right there right then. I smiled a sad smile as a few tears escaped my eyes. A small laugh escaped my lips and I shook my head. A wave of happiness moved up and over my head as I realized that you were not here to witness this. You weren't there to see me cry. 

"Nick, it may never get better," I said, honestly. "In fact, it may only get worse." I bit back a few tears. "But that's just life. Life is complicated and hard. Nobody ever said it would be easy, so don't you dare throw in the towel just because of a little sadness. A little depression or hell, a lot of it." I shrugged as I sat at the foot of my bed. "Suicide is an answer, but its not the only one. " I smiled. "You could be happy, but you'll have to find it in the little things." I sniffled a bit. "Like warm showers, and walks through the park, long conversations-"

"Well written poetry, a hot cup of coffee, and you."

You always knew what to say. You always knew how to make me feel better even when you were pretending not to notice because I was pretending to be okay.

I smiled lightly and allowed my hand to free my eyes of tears. 

"And me?" I questioned.

"Yeah," you said, "and you."