I Can't Keep Doing This

TW: suicide

      Music is all we really had in common, so creating a tribute song makes sense. Well, music, suicidal thinking, and trouble with women, if I’m being fully honest. A funeral isn’t the place for bitterness though. Now isn’t the time to dwell on all the unanswered questions. I’ll have the rest of my life to lose sleep ponder them.

           I hold my cigarette between my lips while my fingers strum the guitar. My foot taps in a steady rhythm like a metronome. I close my eyes and let the emotions seep from my heart, trickling down to the tips of my fingers.

We used to play together. He was always better. More practice, maybe. More passion, definitely. Some days I absolutely hated music. I don’t even know why, but I suspect it’s because of how much he loved it. 

           I put down the gray acoustic guitar and pull the cigarette out of my mouth. I stare at it and watch the little ribbons of smoke dance and twirl off the tip.

           “I can’t keep doing this.” I crush the cigarette into the crystal ashtray that paints rainbows on my attic wall with the beams of sunlight that invade my dark space. I know I need to quit. It’s a bad habit, and I’ve known this for a while. Why not let today be the day? I pry the pack from the pocket of my baggy jeans and toss it in the trash.

           I hear my cellphone buzzing, and glance at the screen. Charlotte. Why haven’t I blocked her number yet? I should ignore it, but she could be calling to offer condolences. She always liked my dad. Come to think of it, I’m almost surprised she didn’t mess around with him too. With my best friend and brother, she could have had the full trifecta. I shouldn’t answer it, but I do.

           “Yeah?” I say.

           “Hi, Benji. How’re you doing?” She sounds cheerful. Irritation crawls across my skin, clawing to get inside.

           “What do you want?”

           “I miss you.”

           “Miss me? Are you kidding me?”

           “No, I’ve been doing some thinking and─”

           “Stop right there. I’m not having this conversation with you again.”

           “But I love you.”

           “Well, you sure did a great job of showing that by cheating on me four times.”

           “Benji, you know how sorry I am.”

           “No, I don’t. Sorry people stop doing the thing they’re sorry for. You’re not sorry.”

           “Let me─”

           “Look, I can’t keep doing this. It’s over. Stop calling.” I end the call. What is wrong with that girl? Today, of all days. I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s always been selfish.

           My dad’s always been selfish too, but he gets a pass for today. I wish I could tell him about that phone call because he’d get it. He’d shake his head and mutter, “unbelievable.”

           He’d probably be changing his guitar strings and tuning. He tuned more than played, or at least it seemed that way. Maybe, because I’m terrible at playing guitar, and he understood something I didn’t. Maybe he was just a perfectionist. Or it could be a distraction from his lack of creativity. There goes that bitterness again. I said it had no place today. It doesn’t because for every bad memory, I can recall a good one. For every night he got drunk and every night he hit me, I can also remember a fun day filled with smiles. Beaches, movies, concerts, and all of that. He was fun.

           I close my eyes and picture us. I remember this time he took me out hunting, because it’s one of those male rites of passage or something along those lines. I’d never heard of him going out hunting before, but sometimes he’d get these ideas in his head about how things should be. I shot a quail. He shot his own foot. We ended up in the emergency room, which oddly is where a lot of memories end up. God, I missed him so much. Way more than I ever imagined I would.

           While jogging down memory lane, I also wander out of the attic and into the bathroom. It’s time for my daily confrontation with my nemesis. According to Dr. Melbourne, it’ll help my debilitatingly low self-esteem to say positive affirmations in the mirror each day. I’m also supposed to record a journal of how I feel during each encounter, so we can talk about it in therapy.

           I glance in the mirror and my instinct is to avert my eyes. I take a deep breath and try again. I notice my long, unkempt, brown hair could use a comb through, but I also know I probably won’t do it. Dark bags underline my lifeless, dull brown eyes. My eyes are getting watery and I know the tears are lining up and ready to sprint. A heavy weight drops onto my chest. I see all the pimples. I notice my normally tan skin is pale. Hate sparks into a roaring fire in my gut.

           “I am lovable.” My voice cracks as I say it. The tears race forward and dive down my cheeks. I take a deep breath and fight them back.

           “I am valuable.” My voice raises at the end like it’s a question.

           “This is so stupid.” I sigh and look away from the mirror to take a moment to pull myself together.

           “I am okay looking.” Okay is the nicest way I can phrase this, and Dr. Melbourne lets me because it’s progress. He’s all about progress. To pick a word like beautiful or handsome would feel way too dishonest. I’m glad I’ll get to see him before the funeral.

           I grab my journal, step outside and squint as the light burns my eyes. It’s way too bright. Days like this should be dark and rainy. I go to start the car, but it won’t start. I know nothing about cars. My dad did though. He’d know exactly what this was all about. I can’t stop the tears now, so I sit and think of the times he tried to show me, but I didn’t care. It all sounded so boring, and I didn’t want to be a car guy. Car guys at my school were always jerks. While my dad was alive, it never felt like I needed him. It was great having him around, I loved him, and all that, but I felt independent. Sometimes more of a parent than him. Now that he is gone, and even though it’s only been like a couple days, I feel like I suddenly need him for everything. How will I make it? I may be like a full-grown adult, but I’m not old enough to be parentless either. Yet here I am. No mom and no dad.

           Luckily, Dr. Melbourne isn’t far, and I can walk. On my walk I think about how much I miss when my mom used to read me bedtime stories. How much I miss when my brother and I were like best friends. We did everything together. If you asked me a few years ago if I thought he’d be capable of breaking my trust like he did, I would have laughed. Sometimes it’s like we never know people at all. Naturally, my thoughts go back to my dad. What will I say at his funeral? I loved my dad. Maybe I should have told him that more often. I assumed he knew, but then he put a gun to his head. Do people who know they’re really loved kill themselves? Do they? I honestly need to know. The questions are too much.

           “I can’t keep doing this,” is the first thing that comes out of my mouth when I see Dr. Melbourne. No greetings or small talk.

           “What do you mean by this?”

           “I don’t know. Life. All of it.”

           “Okay. Can you tell me more about this?”

           “God, I need a cigarette really bad.”

           “You’re welcome to smoke in here. You know that.”

           “I quit. Earlier today.”

           He nods.

All the words come flooding out of me. Like blacking out, I’m not aware of what’s happening or what I’m saying. The words are probably jumbled as they race to be the first and all my thoughts mix. Once I’m drained, I feel exhausted. It’s like I could pass out right there on the couch. Like I could sleep forever.

“I know it sounds like you’re listing a lot of bad things that have happened, but you want to know what I hear?”

I roll my eyes. “Sure.”

“I hear a lot of progress.”

What did I say? He’s all about progress.

“You quit smoking.”

“For like three hours.”

“Yes, but three hours can become another three hours and so on. It adds up. Setting the intention is a good first step.”

“I guess.”

“It sounds like you set a boundary and stood up for yourself with Charlotte.”

“I should have left earlier. I can’t believe I took her back four times. Nothing had changed.”

“That’s easy to say with hindsight. Sometimes it takes longer to learn things, but you’re learning. There won’t be a fifth time, right?”

“Right.”

“Healing, learning, growing. None of these things happen overnight. Each step matters. You’ve taken steps.”

“I guess so.”

“Grief. That takes time. Sometimes a lot of time. You’re at the beginning, so you’ll need some patience.”

“I can’t think of good things without the bad, or bad without the good. I feel totally mixed up on how to handle the whole thing.”

“That’s pretty normal.”

“Things were so complicated between us.”

“We can work through that.”

“I already miss him.”

Dr. Melbourne nods sympathetically. He knows the importance of silence, and he lets us sit in it. All that silence wrapping around me like a thick blanket. It’s almost suffocating and almost unbearable. It’s also comforting in a way.

“You can do this. This whole life thing. You can.”

I shake my head.

“You already are. Things can always change and you’re making the changes.”

I shrug. The ticking clock sounds obnoxiously loud. It’s not as annoying as the whirring of the white noise maker. All I want is peace. I want to be consumed in dark silence. I want to go home, pull the blankets over my head and sleep. Sleep for as long as it takes to be able to wake up and realize none of this happened. I’ll wake up and hear my dad hacking up a lung between mumbling something about politics and how no one is really free.

“What if we make your new affirmation, I can do this?”

I can do this. I can do this.

“It seems a bit cheesy. Cliché or something.”

“How would you change it?”

“Maybe I’ll just give it some more time.” I shrug. “That’s probably cliché too, but at least it sounds a bit more doable at the moment.”

“Fair enough.”

“Things will get better. Ugh. That’s even worse.”

“It’s true though.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about this whole affirmation thing, honestly. I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask. If it doesn’t help, we’ll try something else.”

I nod. I am lovable. I am valuable. I am okay looking. I can do this. Things will get better. I don’t believe it, but I can almost see me believing this off in the distance. Like maybe future me really gets all this and is doing okay. I can’t wait for the day I catch up to him, so I can too. Suddenly, it hits me. I know how the song should sound. The melody plays in my mind. It's haunting, but hopeful. A full whirlwind of emotion, but the constant drumbeat underlying the whole thing and keeping time, is steeped in love.