Not Quite Sure Yet

Chapter 25

Dear Joey,

I don't know what to tell you, Joe. I don't know what to say, what to write. I just don't know anything anymore.

I'm having a bad day, Joe. It's not because of anybody; nobody did or said anything. It's just me, and my thoughts and my memories. And being left alone with ones worst and best recollections was never going to end well.

For a few months after you died, I had these days often. The type of days that I felt like complete shit, the days I felt more alone than ever. The days in which I wouldn't leave the house, or even my room. I wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep, wouldn't do anything. I would just sit, and stare at a wall, occasionally crying. Put it this way, these days are no fun.

R and Beth left a week ago, and while I loved having them here, now they're gone, the pain in my chest has come back that little bit harder. It's a constant pain, aching, throbbing in the place where my heart is. I suppose that's what loss feels like. Because explaining how it hurts to somebody else, is nearly impossible. Pain caused by the mind is not the same as pain caused by being injured. Pain caused by the mind has no painkiller, has no cure. Because the human mind is cruel, and manipulative and relentless. In fact, I believe that the brain feeds on misery, because happiness is much harder to remember. And this is why I'm by myself on these days. Because of the depressive crap that falls from my lips and poisons everyone's mood.

Normally, everybody knows to just leave me to it. Mom just sticks her head in the door, sighs and calls the school. R and Beth used to put two and two together and comfort me the next day instead. But obviously people here aren't trained to deal with my uncontrollable brain, so don't understand why I won't pick up the phone. Why I don't reply to texts. Why, just for a day, I vanish off the face of the earth.

Duke has called twenty-four times, sent me twelve texts and three emails. Blue has called eighteen times, sent me nine texts and quite a few angry voicemails. I guess they must be worried.

But today, I can't bring myself to care. The only thing I care about is how I miss you, how much I want you back. How I thought I was getting better, thought I was improving. Obviously not. Obviously I would never be better completely. Obviously I can't be fixed.

Someone keeps pressing the door bell repeatedly. They've been there for at least ten minutes, relentlessly buzzing. It's fucking annoying, but if they think I'm answering the door, they're sadly mistaken. Probably just one of Moms work friends. Because unlike myself, my mother is a very popular and likable woman. But that's only because they haven't met her son.

“It is better to be hated for what you are than to be loved for what you are not.”

Cole