My eyes flew open as if I was startled awake by a loud sound or someone shaking me, but there was silence and no hands were on me. As they adjusted to the brightness of suddenly being flipped on like a switch, my brain hung in a clouded state. It was those milliseconds, nanoseconds even, that had somehow had a way of feeling like forever. The balance between sleeping and consciousness was confounding, and also was shrouded with uncertainty. Am I even awake? Did something loud wake me up? Am I dreaming? So many questions pounded in my brain, not entirely formed but resting on the edge of my existence like words begging to be spoken but stuck on the tip of your tongue. Unlike these questions I couldn’t quite form and answers that never would come, what quickly became clear to me, somehow, (even without seeing the evidence) was that I was being watched.
Just as certainly and instantaneously as I realized this truth, instant panic settled in. It came faster than lightning could strike, faster than I could even fathom trying to investigate this fear. However, this panic was, thankfully, short lived. I noticed, fairly quickly, that not much effort or examination was required to figure out my little mystery. It didn’t even take a movement of my head; I simply averted my gaze down to my feet. There, above my toes enrobed in padded, bright red, non-slip socks, were a set of eyes staring back at me. They were watching me more intensely than an owl or hawk tracking its prey. At that moment I would have gasped, shrieked, maybe yelled for help – had I not remembered. Oh, right. SW. Suicide Watch.
And it all came rushing back to me in a wave of misery, morose, and uncertainty. I suddenly remembered everything. Even though the moments between waking up to this realization- this revelation, were short, confounding, and a little terrifying- I wished immediately I could go back to not remembering. I instantly and fondly adored those moments of confusion, because anything was better than my current reality, even the groggy moments in between being awake and asleep. The only thing better, I thought, would be to be dead.
This same experience occurred over and over again about every twenty minutes or so the first night that I had my little guest with me. I would wake up confused and panicked, covered in sweat or out of breath. I would again and again come to the realization that I was indeed being watched. And even though it never took me too long to remember who she was and why she was there, it still was awfully unsettling to wake up to a stranger who never looked away.
Sometimes it took me longer to notice and remember her presence, while others it was the obvious reason I woke up again. But most of the time I awoke startled, with a feeling that entombed me; a truth I knew well but momentarily forgotten like my favorite hot dog topping or name of my usual deodorant. This truth was my not-so-secret secret: I wanted to die.
So, this friend of mine (we’ll just call her that to make things easier for both of us, ok?) was my new shadow. Up until this point in my life if you had floated the idea of someone watching me sleep past me I would have thought it was romantic, an over-the-top gesture that was too sweet for words. However, this felt much different of course. Suffocating. Unnerving. Violating.
At first I tried to ignore her. I did my best to pretend like her presence was unbeknownst to me. Yet, I could feel the heavy and imploring stares of my peers when walking the halls to lunch room, TV room, or groups. I could hear their whispers, no matter how quietly they tried to keep them. I didn’t blame them, I would be curious, too. One day I was the group leader, rattling the serenity prayer from memory as I began each meeting, the next I was confined to my room for hours only to emerge with a buddy I couldn’t shake loose. It must have been confusing. Or, at least gossip-worthy, anyway.
When I am struggling with the heaviness of actuality I begin to see my life as a story; as if my experiences are a narrative, an unassuming novel sitting plainly on a dusty shelf. Like perhaps my existence is simply a series of events that aren’t mine or yours or anyone’s; they just are. This is not something I do for fun or by choice, but rather a way of survival. When reality becomes too sharp to look at directly, my mind steps outside itself.
Sometimes I even imagine myself lurking in a quaint bookshop, browsing through their selection. I picture myself examining the back cover of each novel, maybe flipping through the pages and after reading a paragraph or two eventually deciding to put this one back in its place on the rack again. If only it was that simple, that emotionless, that lackadaisical, that unimportant. If only I could keep perusing until I found the perfect fit, until I found the right storyline that felt most like home to me.
Now, I know how that sounds, right? Awful, probably. Ungrateful. Selfish. Childish, even. I should be thankful of my current life, appreciative of my working body and mind, willing to continue droning on, trying harder for my family and friends, and whatever it is that you wish for someone who yearns for an existence that contrasts their own.
And I am. Doing those things, I mean. I am thankful and appreciative and willing and trying. And, yet…
I sometimes tend to wish my life could be as irrelevant to me as a book I simply picked up by chance and am not entirely interested in. As if I could decide that the back-cover blurb isn’t appealing enough, the plot line doesn’t spark any interest, the characters don’t resonate with me.
The truth is, though, that this is my reality, and my life isn’t printed neatly on uncoated paper. I cannot simply choose another story, dive into another character’s narrative, experience life through any other soul than my own. I am not standing in a desolate library that smells faintly of musty vanilla beans, peering through endless rows of spines staring back at me. I am not plucking each one that speaks to me from its specific and calculated home to skim its contents leisurely. I am not just spending a dreary evening looking for an entertaining quick read, a reliable resource, or for my next armchair travel destination.
This is my story, and I only get one.
And that seems to be the problem.
-the mom with the forehead tattoo
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