Hey Mom

I’m half in love with death. The other half, I’m partially in love with the life. Or maybe I’m in love with the idea of life, I don’t really know. I’m bad at decisions, aren’t I? I can’t even decide why I feel the need to die. But, I’m in front of a jury right now, right? I’m always, constantly, in front of a jury of eyes that don’t even know they are judging me. Friends and family who naturally avoid me, as if touching me might result in catching the suicidal. I leave the hypothetical jury wondering, questioning, because maybe my death isn’t justified enough. If I squeeze my eyes shut hard enough and look back into this mirror, this bathroom doubling as a courtroom behind me will disappear. Because seriously, who wants to die in a freaking bathroom? (sigh) Maybe I’m just a I’m my mother’s kid. I always have been, always will be. It’s not like going to college magically makes you grow up, I learned that the hard way.

In college, there is no grey area, it’s pass or fail. Do something with your life or, ya know, live on ramen noodles for the rest of your pitiful existence. I always expected to fall into the latter. Is that why I can’t make decisions? Because decisions might rock the boat of my future and I’m not trying to do anything unexpected. Wake up, take my medication, go to school, come home, take my medication, eat a microwave dinner, take more medication, sleep, and repeat. I can’t afford to make something of myself. Not with these shaky hands and uneasy eyes, I might accidentally break something.

This one time, I dropped a test tube in bio lab. My professor had a temper, which we all knew, but, but I made a mistake. I dropped the test tube. Following the smash was a yell, and then a scream, and and then a shriek and I just stood there, right? I just stood there and took it because, because otherwise, I’d be doing something unexpected. People with anxiety don’t yell back so I stood there. I did what any depressed, anxious, bipolar person would do. Stand there. And take it.

I told her about the test tube. She asked what I did in response and I said nothing. No, no I didn’t say nothing, I told her that I said nothing in response to my professor. She told me it’s time I get over the idea of being ill, that I can fix this if I put my mind to it. I nodded sensely, and did what any depressed, anxious, bipolar person would do. I stood there. and took it.

You have any advice? I mean, you aren’t exactly the shining example of survival. But still, Mom, been there done that, ya know? So whatdaya say? How did you make it for 35 years. What did you say when people called you dramatic and when Dad said, (In impression of man’s voice) “It’s about time you get over this nonsense.” (laughs uncomfortable) Huh Mom?

(Sits silently for a second. Mood goes from uncomfortably, maniacal to desperate.)

Come on, Mom, I’m your daughter you can’t just sit there and watch this. This is your fault anyway! I got my screwy genes from you.  I don’t want to go yet, but I seems like my only option. Even from death, you’re pulling my sanity down a drain and just begging me to join you. Wherever you are. Because you’re not here. You never were here, in life or afterlife, you always hovered on the outskirts of shadows acting as if you hadn’t began a life that you had to finish.

Then you left. You didn’t finish what you started and quit mid race. You let me and Dad down. He’s the one I should be talking to right now. He’s the one who didn’t bail halfway through like you so no, Mom, I don’t want your damn genetics. And I sure as hell refuse to turn into you. Maybe I can vomit up your genes along with these pills.