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[cactus-writing]

writing a memory

I will be missed. I am not alone. 

We talk about suicide. The “unreasonable voice of reason” in our heads. You know the one. The irrational one that tell us all the wrong things at the right time. Its our most vicious critic, our most hated parts of ourselves.

We talk about how it tells us that no one would care if we were gone. Our parents would be glad we were gone, it says.”Your siblings don’t care” it yells. “Would your friends even be sad?” it questions. These ugly questions get hurled at us when we are at our lowest. Our worst adversary is ourselves. 

Logically, we know the truth. We know that our parents would be upset, tormented to bury their children. We know our siblings wouldn’t understand why we would do such a thing to their baby brother/sister. We know our friends would cry, mourn, and possibly even blame themselves. We know.

It says other wise, and we are tempted to believe it.

Some days, it is stronger than others. Some days, it sounds like the voice of reason it’s trying so hard to mimic. It is apart of us. It’s hard to shake.

We talk about it. It’s surprisingly candid. Our conversation doesn’t hold the kind of tension that comes with peeling back layers to reveal something so raw as suicide and self worth. We converse in the same tone and flow that we had earlier, talking about movies, games, our everyday. It felt safe and understood.

I told him I would be sad if he ever did. He said he would be sad if I ever did.

He didn’t say it be comforting, he didn’t say it to placate me, to talk me off an edge. It was said as a fact, as a simple truth. The sky is blue. This is my favorite shirt. I would be sad if you killed yourself. I would miss you.

I would miss him, too.

I didn’t recognize what was really said as it was exchanged (we had continued on with the conversation without stopping). It was much later when I realized how much it actually helped to hear someone say it. Not in the heat of the moment when I’m so far gone, not when I’m wrecked with anxiety and crippled by depression, but at that moment. When our feet were in the river behind the amphitheater in my hometown, under a small tree for shade, watching the mud-suckers swim on by. It was said so genuinely, without any other motive or purpose than to simply tell me. 

It’s a memory that I want to keep forever.

Wednesday. August 10th, 2016. 1:46 pm.

[cactus-writing]

writing a memory

A Good Sunday Morning

It’s 9:30 am and the alarm you forgot you set goes off. It’s the small green one, the one you thought you wouldn’t need because your phone has multiple alarms– specifically because you have a habit of shutting them off in your sleep. You try to turn of the screeching alarm as fast as possible because your roommate is sleeping on the other side of your wall. 9:30 am on a Sunday is like 5:00 am in your household: too damn early. 

You scramble in your half-asleep state before it wakes up your roommate. You’re sure she’s heard it, but she won’t mention it because she loves you, and you love her, and that’s what people who care about each other do. They put up with your ‘too damn early’ alarm-screech.

The alarm is off, and you think about getting up. It’s around 10 am when you finally do. The second your door opens, the kennel in your living room is already rustling.

Roscoe is small and precious and currently naked (no collar), because he’s chewed through the burgundy harness you bought him last week. He is small, precious, and a menace to society. He looks extra pink in the mornings, you think to yourself when you step into the living room. His fleshy color peaks through his short, white hair so easily. You free him, feed him, and go about your bathroom business.

When you step into the living room once again, he is found at the gate of his pen, tail wagging, waiting for the sweet release of freedom. You grant him this before unceremoniously plopping on the couch, where he demands to be carried onto as well. He sits on your legs, then moves to grab a toy. He decides to make himself comfortable directly on your stomach before he begins to chew, then decides the couch is a much better chew toy. You tell him no, he stops, and goes to grab a toy again to repeat the cycle until you decide you need orange juice.

You switch on the PS4 and open up the YouTube app to play music. The music is more upbeat than what you would normally play on these morning, but it fits your mood seamlessly. You dance, Roscoe watches, you continue to dance, Roscoe yawns.

You pause the dance party to give Roscoe a treat for going potty on the potty-pad. Then he goes again, but not on the potty pad. Into the pen he goes again.

He’s free when you’ve decided on making pancakes. You hear your roommate’s door open. Roscoe runs down the hall to her in excitement. One pancake is almost done, so you offer it, but she’s heading to work. You can tell she wants nothing more than to stay for pancakes, a friend, and a loving puppy. We take a glance at the money box holding our collected rent money that is due tomorrow. We’re starting back at square one.

She retreats to her restroom to apply makeup, and the first pancake is done. Roscoe tries to follow, but he’s swiftly kicked out for his own safety. He eats too many things off of her floor. Last time, he almost ate a thumbtack. He’s so dumb, and you love him.

You eat the first pancake while the second one cooks, watching your roommate run about. You hold normal morning conversation while keeping an eye on the cooking pancake; pleasant ‘good mornings’, content conversation, and the dread for going to work– the norm. When she runs out, you follow, holding her name tag. You call well wishes for a good day, and even better tips. She laughs, sardonically. You watch her pull out of the driveway and note the nice day. A nice day for a walk, but unfortunately, there’s things to do: meeting up with people, rent to pay, medicine for Roscoe, groceries to buy. You decide to save that walk for the afternoon.

You go back inside, delighted the third pancake hasn’t burned. Roscoe gets his medicine. You eat as you watch him chew on his own tail. He choked on it. He’s so dumb. You love him so much.

You put on an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation via Netflix. You climb onto the couch and watch Data and Geordi try to solve a Sherlock Holmes mystery. Roscoe falls asleep on your chest. You’re sitting at an awkward angle and try to slide down without disturbing the pink, naked puppy on your chest. You get to some semblance of comfort and you’re surprised he hasn’t woken up. He rolls down and across onto your belly like the unconscious sausage he is. You’re finally comfortable when you look down. His paws are in the air as he’s rolled onto his back with his tongue sticking out. You laugh so much he wakes up anyway.

The episode’s credits roll by and you wipe away the tear tracks on either side of your face. The hologram of Moriarty has his own consciousness and he simply wants the right to exist like every being in this galaxy.

Roscoe goes potty where he’s not supposed to again, it coincides with the time to put him in the kennel again, anyway. He sleeps on the bed you bought, in the kennel your roommate bought, holding the toy you picked out together in his mouth. A long fox, his favorite.

It’s time to be an adult. People will arrive soon to take a look at your car. You have to clean the dishes, message so and so about no longer meeting on Tuesday, message a different person about meeting tomorrow. You have rent money in the box that needs to be turned in. You have to check the mail about utilities and the electric bill. That ground beef in the fridge needs to be defrosted. You make a list and decide a long shower is needed. Procrastinating? Perhaps.

You think about this morning and you want to remember it, remember this section of your life and how you never pictured yourself like this when you were younger. You, in an apartment, with a dog, with friends you cherish, and Things To Do. This isn’t perfection, but there’s a happiness and a calm to this morning and other mornings like this.

You grab your laptop and you write.

It’s September 30, 2018, 1:13 pm. Typing that out, now you know you’re procrastinating.

[cactus-writing]

starlight kiss

there's starlight in your kiss  and sunshine on your fingertips paint your nails yellow and touch your sun to my soul shine your sun, your sunlight, and kiss me, kiss me sweetly

[cactus-writing]

young and hurt; but still going.

you’re young, but not naive. you’ve been too hurt to not see.

the skin thickens on your feet, running since your fourteenth.

but through all the hunger and pain, the stars were still your goal, babe.