Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to disappear.
I got the news this evening about Robin Williams’s death, along with everyone else in the world. He appeared to be such a gentle soul, a charmed one with a tragic gift of giving happiness to other people. It must be so strenuous to have such a curse. The curse of being the one who supplies joy and laughter, carrying the burden of jovial behavior, vanquishing darkness in order to entertain and bring light to the world. That to me is the saddest life one could live. It’s also the only life that makes sense to me.
It’s been a few days since my night with Damien and the cloud that rolled in with it hasn’t left me alone since. I fantasize about my obsession with Damien dwindling into tiny little pieces of confetti to be misplaced and poorly picked up, only to be carried away by one swift gust of wind. I’m longing for that moment, because lately Damien is all I think about.
Damien, Damien, Damien.
I think of other things too, like what would be the best way to kill myself. I’m deeply terrified of pain. I hate the thought of any sort of physical pain and yet when I am experiencing it, I tend to handle it very well. Pain I guess doesn’t bother me; it’s the anticipation of it all. So if I do decide to leave this earth of my own volition, I will do it in the quickest, most painless way possible. I also decided that before I would go, I would leave every single person I love a nice letter. I would write about fifty letters or so, probably more, and place them each in an envelope with its corresponding names, later to be picked up at my funeral. I want to let these people know how much they mean to me and I want them to know I thought about them before I died. The hardest ones to write would be to my parents of course, who would surely suffer the most out of everyone. It’s when I think about my mother’s fragility that I begin to stop myself from thinking about suicide, even though the urge still lingers. While writing these letters seems like a great gesture, I fear the process of writing them will put a damper on my suicide plans.
I think I would make “xoxo Jacob Crawford” the salutation for each letter. There’s something about putting “xoxo” in front of my name that makes it sound like me.
While Damien’s cloud still hovers over me, it seems as though we are closer than ever before. We text every day, all day, continuing conversation with minor pauses in between. It’s like that night actually brought us closer together, but I have yet to find out if it’s due to romantic proclivities or if it just further established our status as close friends. I would prefer the first one, but I’m trying not to get my hopes up. So I’ll continue to tell myself it’s the latter. I’m apt to romanticizing even the smallest of actions.
Short vibration along with a text from Damien.
I began to think about Damien’s eyes. His eyes are like two translucent crystal balls that hang in the balance, full of answers and secrets swimming around in its scrying pools, none of which I could ever know. There’s so much brewing within those glass spheres and when I feel them watching me, for a second I believe I will finally get an answer, something, anything. But still nothing. Nothing but cold reflections of uncertainty. I may not be powerful enough in my witch-like ways to know what’s inside Damien’s head, but I sure can dream up what lies behind his icy eyes. The only problem is, I have quite the imagination.
I contemplated telling Damien about my recent slip into depression and my thoughts of suicide. I didn’t want to worry him or bestow any sort of pressure. He doesn’t handle intense emotion well, not like I do, so I decided not to tell him.
I changed my mind about ten minutes later.
Text message about being a sad lil’ bitch sent to Damien. Delivered.
My mother called me to my room. I could hear the hysteria in her voice and I knew it was urgent. I also knew exactly what it was she was about to show me.
I had bed bugs.
As I scurried up the stairs, sounds of dismay and worry echoed from my room louder and louder as I approached the scene. “Oh my god, oh my god,” she repeated in between hissing sprays of bug spray.
“Look at this,” she said, staring at me as I stood in the doorway. My father was out of town and in his absence, strange and uncomfortable events would sometimes take place. Running away at 15, accidentally coming out of the closet to my mother at 16, car accidents at 17, and now bed bugs at 22. I could feel my mother becoming unhinged as her stress level rose, debating whether or not she would be able to leave with my father for their scheduled three-week trip to the Redwood Forests. This was bad. The bed bugs were everywhere, not just in my bed, but also in my mornings, in my days and in my sleep. The bed bugs had been crawling their way through my life, inserting themselves uninvited, sucking the blood out of my skin, creeping through my flesh and living off of my own goals, memories, dreams and aspirations, continually holding me back from seeing the road ahead and pulling me deeper and deeper into a heavy sleep. All I wanted to do was sleep. It’s seems all I did lately was sleep.
My mother told me I probably contracted the bugs when I was visiting New York City earlier this summer. I became a very naive teenage boy in that moment, blinded by love, and I thought there was just no possible way it could be from New York, the love of my life. There’s no reason he would hurt me like this. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. But then again maybe this was his way of driving me out of my own sanity and into his loving arms. Maybe this was his way of making me miss him more. Maybe it was time for us to reunite permanently. I felt like our marriage would start out a bit rocky, but we could make it work. I’m completely in love with him. But again I am stuck. Paralyzed by my own privileged problems. Parched in a town that bears no succulence or flavor.
I watched as my mother frantically placed each item from my bed into large black trash bags. As each bag was filled, she would tie its opening shut and transport the infested belongings to the garage. Pillows, blankets, sheets, clothing, gone into the trash bags to later be taken to a landfill far enough away from my room.
I made my way back downstairs as my mother was occupying the garage and that’s when it happened.
I don’t know how or why, but I was crying, sobbing uncontrollably. It was like receiving a short curse of the hiccups: out of nowhere, difficult to get rid of and oh, such a nuisance. It’s such a nuisance to make stupid little fucking hiccup noises for no fucking reason. It’s such a nuisance to cry stupid little fucking tears for no fucking reason.
In my head, I was disgusted with myself. “Pull it together. Damn it, Jacob, get it together you stupid fucking bitch. What is the matter with you? Why the fuck are you crying?” The voice inside my head continued to scold me until I stopped the tears and took a deep breath, but not in time before my mother reentered the house, witnessing the last 6 seconds of my mini-meltdown.
She saw me. I was caught.
The next ten minutes felt like a lucid dream… like I was only half-asleep, aware of my own consciousness, but so tired that I continued to dream on even as I felt the hot nighttime breeze blowing through the open window. It’s like I was shutting out what was happening while remaining on the front lines of battle, with my crackling voice as my only weapon, defenseless as my mother interrogated me with frustration and concern around our kitchen island. I was avoiding her in the scuffle of my own imagination, my thoughts circling, twisting around like Dorothy’s house in the eye of that fateful tornado. There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home. I don’t know where home is, where I would land, where I would want to land after being shaken, beaten, and thrusted around in the air. The noise continued, the siren blared. Don’t tell her what’s wrong with you! Don’t tell her what’s wrong with you! I fought and fought but the noise was too loud and the siren left a ringing that stung for what seemed like hours. I could feel myself unraveling; I could feel myself coming undone. I wondered what it would be like to disappear. I wanted to disappear.
“What’s wrong with you, Jacob?” my mother implored.
“I want to kill myself,” I said.