Processing Center

(Author's Note: This story contains material concerning mental health, suicide, and violence.)

January 3rd

H,

Do you remember when you learned how to tie your shoes? I don't remember exactly. I remember the frustration of not being able to, then one day, I could always do it. Isn't it odd certain lessons from our childhood have stuck with us to this very day? Tasks that we see as mundane were once so challenging.

I brought this up because Martha, my oh-so wonderful sister, stopped by my office today. She wants to orchestrate a celebration of life for our parents. They have been gone for almost 10 years. Honestly, I don't understand it. From what I remember, she was always arguing with them. She never seemed to fully love them - only when they were giving her attention. I think she was jealous of how they doted on me. When I was learning to ride a bike, she would push me over and laugh. I would cry and Mom would send her to her room. As time went on, she got smarter about how she hurt me.

I don't think she really likes anyone in our family - not even her husband. I think she feels like a big shot because he's some rich stockbroker from New York. I don't give a shit. She reminds me of a fucking dragon. Her lifeless, grey eyes, where her overly white smile can never reach. I imagine her on top of a hoard pulling fools in with her fake charisma. Gathering their praises. But when she doesn't get what she wants? The anger seeps from the sewer of her soul. Do not challenge her majesty! She can do nothing wrong!

I digress...Should I help her? I feel like I will just feed her ego with helping. I will do all the hard planning and execution, and she takes all the credit. Just like when we were kids. I remember making Dad one of those plastic stain glass ornaments. I painted it all the colors he loved - gold, red, and blue. She snatched it away and gave it to him. I just remained quiet and let him shower her with the love intended for me. Why was I such a meek child?

Anyway, I hope all is well at your end. How is life? Anything new to share?

A

January 8th

A,

Have you tried talking to Martha about how she treats you? I am not sure how much it will help. She seems to have some narcissistic qualities. But what's the worst that can happen when you call her out on her behavior? She stops talking to you? It seems like that is what you want anyway.

Life hasn't been too stressful, but I haven't been particularly hungry. I have lost 10 pounds in the last two weeks. Chester is worried, but my weight has always fluctuated. I am just disinterested in my surroundings. Chester and I haven't touched each other in months, besides a brief kiss, here and there. It doesn't bother me too much because I'm not sure if I want him to touch me. I don't think we love each other as much as we did 3 years ago. I have thought about divorce. It keeps me up at night. I look at him trying to figure out why we even got together in the first place. We are different. Was it out of necessity? We were both expected to marry young and start a family. I don't want kids and I don't think he does either. We always put off stopping birth control. No time seems right.

Anyway, you should help Martha, but make it the last time. Document the work you put into the event. When she takes credit, send her a letter stating all that you did, and this has been a consistent thing she has done to you. If she can't recognize it, cut ties with her. I know it sounds simpler than it is, but sometimes, that's what we must do.

H

January 13th

H,

I took your advice. The celebration is on the 29th and all our family will be there. Even Uncle Ted. I haven't seen him in years, and I am not excited about him being there. Doesn't Martha remember? Mom loved him, despite all of his flaws.

Martha is nitpicking every task I take on. It's exhausting. She was standing behind me belittling the picture collage I was putting together. I wanted to throw back my head and break her nose. Instead, I gently placed the photos down, told her to do it herself, and walked away. There are plenty of other tasks to be done. She sighed loudly, and said, 'Why are you always like that? You never could take criticism!'

You should have seen how fast I spun around and said, 'Criticism? Criticism is for the betterment of a person's end goal. What you do is not criticism. You poke and prod and make the person feel small. They can never do it as well as you! I am making the choice to let you take over, because in your mind, you can do better. So do it. I will finish the invitations.'

Oh, the look on her face was better than the bloody nose I had first imagined! I never speak to her like that. Does anyone? I know her husband doesn't. Why do I let her have so much power over my feelings? She plagued my childhood and now, my adulthood! Will she care once I eject her completely from my life and mind? Is she addicted to the way she makes me feel? Will she withdraw and beg me for my presence just so she can get her ego-maniacal fix?

I'm sorry to hear about you and Chester. You deserve to be happy, but finding yourself in this bleak world is difficult. Have you thought about couple's therapy? Do you think it would be worth it? I remember a time when I tried therapy. It was nice. Although, speaking to a 60-year-old man about my problems seemed a bit disingenuous on both our parts. I suggest finding someone of similar age. Maybe I should find someone to talk to about Martha...and Uncle Ted.

A

January 17th

A,

It was wise not to smash her face, but I understand wanting to make someone feel just as you do. I have thought about smashing plates against the wall. Right above Chester's head, just to get a reaction out of him.

I will consider couple's therapy. I don't think he would go. I am sure he feels that's what unstable people do. He grew up with a family that hides their emotions, not too unlike our own. I just want to able to get restful sleep. I want to enjoy food. I want to enjoy the sun on my face.

I hold onto his pain, sorrow, and anger and he gives nothing in return. It's scraping away at my soul. I don't think I can withstand his darkness much longer. It creeps into every facet of our lives. I want to kill him, sometimes. If he dies, will that darkness leave?

Obviously, I would never do that, but I think about it often. Especially at night, when his dumb face is blowing hot, putrid air into my nostrils. How can he sleep, when this doesn't feel right? How did I end up here?

H

January 28th

H,

Everyone has arrived at Martha's ungodly sized estate. Tomorrow is the big day. Seeing all their faces makes me want to dive off a cliff or maybe push them all off a cliff? I don't know. Going through the polite motions of asking how every is makes my stomach tie in knots. I always felt like this at family events, but now, it feels like I am being waterboarded. Gasping for some authentic interaction.

Uncle Ted placed his hand on my back. The smell of his cologne brought me back to our old house. I try not to remember the times he babysat Martha and I, but the feeling of his hand on my body pushed those memories to the surface. I would be lying if I said I didn't run out of that room.

I went to the patio and watched as everyone hugged and showered Martha with their compliments. She lives for these moments. Gathering more praise for her hoard. Will she ever be sated?

Her husband came out to chat. He was a bit close to my liking. The smell of whiskey reminded me of Dad. They have similar tastes. He tried kissing me. So, I slapped him. It was hard and felt good. Honestly, I wanted to beat the living shit out of him.

Maybe that would knock some sense into him. He isn't happy with Martha. She consumes all kinds of happiness in the room. It's all for her. He didn't look at me for the rest of the night. Good. I want nothing to do with these people. Leeches, all of them.

I wish I could go back to those small moments of happiness. Laying on my back in the middle of the lake. The water obscuring Martha's incessant look-at-me laughter as all the boys ogled her. That was the first time I felt truly alone. I wanted to sink to the bottom and live there forever. Have you ever felt like that? Existing, without all the extra bullshit?

A

February 3rd

A,

Why did you do it? Why didn't you call me? I should have seen the warning signs, but it is difficult when you are so close to the person. You should have called me! We could have talked it through.

How are you feeling? What is going to happen to you? I thought we were just talking hypothetically, but when did you get the gun? I don't remember you ever having one. Was it even yours? Martha is dead. Your husband is dead. Your uncle. Your cousin. Martha's friends. What was the tipping point?

I shouldn't have told you to help her. She wasn't worth all of this, was she? I hope you get the help that you need.

H

February 7th

H,

The moment is blurry. I didn't feel in control of my body, but I remember the anger. That was mine. She was talking about all the wonderful things they did. She was up there basking in their glory. She even shed a tear. I think that's when everything went dark.

Everyone is nice here. I like the doctor that comes to see me. She wants to know how I'm feeling. I've never had someone look at me with that amount of intensity when I spoke. She is truly invested in my emotions. It feels good.

You know how I said I wish I could exist without all the extra bullshit? I think I've found it here. I get to sit for hours and think about nothing. I get to look out the window and watch as the world moves forward without me. It's like that time at the lake.

No one bothers me until it's time to take medication or mealtime. The others don't come near me. Maybe they think I'm dangerous? I have nothing against them. But it's nice to be alone. A set routine, with little to no expectations.

I feel at peace. I feel less broken. My mind doesn't wander to dark places as much anymore. Sometimes Martha's face will creep up, but that anger has been snuffed out. I hope I get to stay here for a while. I really do like it here.

A

February 13th

A,

They told me you have a tumor. Right on the amygdala and that's why you did it. Is that where all of this came from? Do you think that's why you did it? I hope one day we get to see each other again and we can talk like we used to. I miss you dearly.

H