The story writes itself. It isn’t made up. It happens exactly as the words explain. But every day, the ending changes. It is always uncertain. Never quite becoming the thing I fear, dread, or even long for. I’m not looking forward to the story having an ending because I hate that it might.
The solitude he creates for himself in his head manifests itself in too much time alone. Its so hard to see those around you and their love for you when you see everything through the stained, warped glasses of depression. I’ve tried to wear those glasses, just to get some perspective. But no matter how hard I try, its a cheap imitation of his tainted spectacles and I just don’t understand. I don’t understand why someone would put themselves in a self-imposed bottomless pit. I don’t understand how one minute, the future is considered and the next, a way out is sought. I don’t understand. I don’t understand. I don’t understand. Is my inability to get it a wedge that pushes us apart? Taken as apathy on my part? Is my frustration seen as annoyance? Is giving him space perceived as not caring?
I wonder if it is better or easier to hear one has cancer? I mean that in the sense that there are options that can be weighed and measured and altered to provide a sound course of treatment. And someone is in control of the process. And the patient is of sound mind. That depression is a vengeful bitch. She grabs a hold of your mind in such a way that makes you believe you don’t need your meds because they won’t help anyway. That you don’t need friends because they won’t understand. That you don’t have anyone who loves you because you’re not worth the effort. That you might as well call it quits now because there’s no reason not to.
This boy. My heart. My soul. He makes my heart joyful and heavy in the same breath. Every day, no, every hour finds me invading his solitude looking for the way in for me and the way out for him. This moment to moment uncertainty is not like the feeling of quicksand, its messier. Like thick, hot tar trying to gurgle up and suck you in. And the one tiny island of solid ground is so small that you get so tired from balancing on one foot to keep from falling in that you give up and let it suck you down. And if that’s how I feel, what must it be like for him?
So what will the story ending look like? I guess I do realize that all stories must have an ending. But will this one be a happily ever after or a nightmare? I wish it were fiction so that I could rip out the pages and rewrite the story.