37. Remy
37
Remy
Five Years and Eight Months Ago
I t’s a utensil. Just a metal spoon.
You can do it.
White noise roars in my ears. The cafeteria table beneath my bowl is miles away. My arms are too long and my fingers are noodles. Voices aren’t speaking; they’re blaring monotonous static at different pitches. I’m in a vortex, unblinking as thousands of thoughts flit by at lightning speed.
The spoon falls from my trembling fingers for the third time.
Numbness. It’s what I wanted right? For the endless agony to stop. To breathe without knives puncturing my weakened lungs. For the bleeding to slow. To stand without my limbs on the verge of collapse.
The promise of peace in my mind.
After the night my world ended, I was presented with a magic cure in the form of SSRIs. Sertraline, fluoxetine, escitalopram— just to name a few of the pills I’ve swallowed in hopes of relief .
In return, I’m gifted insomnia, brain fog, dry mouth, shakes and loss of appetite. Not calming your racing thoughts? Fine, we can switch to a different brand. You’re sluggish now? Too bad because if you drink coffee you’ll puke. Oh, no, the generic isn’t any good. You need a refill? Sorry, the pharmacy won’t be restocking that one, but we can get you something similar. If it’s not enough, up the dose until you’re shivering on the floor, black spots dancing in your vision while you try to figure out where the fuck you are.
You’ll feel better soon.
We just have to find the right one for you.
You’ll be back to your normal self as soon as you adjust.
I’m beginning to think it’s all a lie. The tears won’t stop.
Major Depressive Disorder : A fancy title for Brain Sick.
Chemical imbalances and genetics. Circumstances and stressors. Triggers and coping mechanisms. My summer was spent in doctors' offices and therapy sessions while my classmates partied on the beach or in pools. They were getting drunk, hooking up and having fun while I vomited, screamed and sobbed until my parents were forced to sedate me. Even Xanax or Ambien didn’t stand a chance.
Because the agony isn’t only in my head— it’s in my heart too.
In my pocket, my pointer and thumb rhythmically rub the worn paper folded too many times— crumbled and flattened out again. The ink’s fading but the pain isn’t. It’s burrowed too deep.
I can’t say his name.
I can’t look at photos.
I can’t reread his note.
But I can’t let it go either.
“Remy.”
Her voice is waterlogged. I lift my tired eyes.
Andrea’s mournful expression pours salt in my unseen wounds .
This monstrous illness has cost me more than the boy I’m unfortunately still madly in love with. It’s cost me my friends, my teachers, my teammates, even my fucking parents. Everyone tiptoes around me like I’ll shatter into billions of glass shards at any moment. And they’re right. I never know when a wave will swallow me whole. I can’t trust a good mood to last. I can’t smile without expecting a crash. I’m a zombie banging on the bars of his cage, screaming to be set free but no one can hear me.
A hand gently passes me the spoon.
I blink.
Please save me from this hell.
“You’re soup’s getting cold,” Andrea murmurs.
I blink again.
Do you not see me behind this blank mask?
She bites her quivering lower lip, dropping her gaze.
Rewind time. I can’t do this anymore.
“Babe, you gotta eat something.”
I want to be held. I want Win.
I want Win so fucking bad.
The spoon falls again.
I’m drowning.
Floating outside myself, I watch as my body rises, arm swiping across the table, the bowl crashing to the floor. Gasps and shouts echo through the cafeteria. They’re whispering under their breaths, calling me names I vaguely register, like, psycho, crazy, mental, headcase, delusional, crybaby, pathetic— it goes on and on.
Tears bubble over. I’m running through a wind tunnel, faces elongating and streaking. Disfigured classmates loom over me, laughing and shouting.
“Aww, he’s crying again.”
“What are the voices telling you to do now, Rem? ”
“He’s just upset his little boyfriend left.”
“He's having a psychotic break.”
“Who’s chasing you, crazy boy?”
“Fucking headcase.”
“Is it safe for him to be at school?”
“How sad, he used to be so fun.”
Are they real or in my head? I don’t know.
And that’s even scarier.
I sprint out of the cafeteria and down the hall with a pair of squeaky sneakers hot on my heels.
“Remy!” Andrea cries. “Slow down!”
Not a fucking chance.
When I reach the school nurse’s office, I rip open the door in a fit of hyperventilating sobs. My ribs refuse to expand for my burning lungs. Instantly, the familiar, comforting presence of Nurse Greer surrounds me.
“I got you, hon,” she murmurs, grasping my shoulders and guiding me to the dark resting room.
“Remy—”
I can’t look at my best friend and see a reflection of everything I’ve lost. Not right now.
“Andrea, love, why don’t you go back to lunch?”
“He needs—”
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
“I know you mean well, but right now he needs some peace and quiet.”
Andrea’s mouth snaps shut.
Nurse Greer helps me into one of the recliners while handing me a paper cup and a pill. I don’t question it— just pop the tablet and chase it with lukewarm water. My jaw chatters as I curl into the cushy chair, allowing her to drape a blanket over me.
She glances at Andrea on the threshold, haloed in yellow light.
“I promise he’s in good hands.”
My best friend nods numbly with the sparkle of tears on her cheeks as she shuffles away. Nurse Greer sighs and combs my hair back. “She’s just worried about you, hon.”
“I don't care.”
It's a lie. I do care and that's the problem. I'm so tired of being a burden to the people I love. I'm too drained— too broken to put on a fake face. But my therapist, psychiatrist and parents don't want me to sit at home unsupervised in this state. I've been on board with it; I hate being by myself. Or I used to. But now, for the first time in my life, I don't want anyone around me.
“I need to be alone.”
She sighs, “Alright. Why don’t you take lunch in here until you feel up to joining everyone again?”
The offer is a godsend.
“Y-yeah,” I croak. “Ok.”
She snags one of the weighted pillows off the other recliner and hands it to me. Hugging it to my chest, I take my first full breath in hours.
“You want the sound machine?”
I nod.
“You got it. I’ll bring some snacks in case you get hungry.” She gives my shoulder a squeeze before padding out of the room into her supply closet. The agony begins to subside as the emergency Valium works through my system. My eyelids weigh ten tons, my heart rate slowing…
But the tears still won’t stop.
“Come back to me, Win,” I whisper as I drift off. “I don’t know how to live without you anymore…”