Was He Okay?

(TW …  depression and suicide)

He was sullen. Again.

He was sleeping all day. Again.

“What’s with that kid?” 

“Leave him alone. He’s fine,” I hissed, not wanting to be overheard.

“He should be helping. It’s not fair. Why do I have to do this shit by myself?” My older son was right. It wasn’t fair. I stood outside my younger son’s closed bedroom door contemplating my choices.

“Hun, you ok?” I could ask tentatively, only for him to reply, “What do you want? Leave me alone.”

“Get up. We’re doing yardwork, you’re in charge of weeding,” I could call out cheerfully from the hallway, only for him to reply, “I’m sleeping.”

I could fling open his door and rip the blanket off his sleeping body and scream in his face, “Get the fuck out of this bed right now and get with the program,” only for him to reply, “Fuck you.” This third choice was a realistic choice, however, not my favorite. 

When is teenage angst more than just teenage angst? When do you go from ignoring red flags and hoping for better days to actual worry, panic, and seeking professional help? 

Suicide ran in the family. There, I said it. It’s not discussed publicly. They weren’t even family members that I knew well. But yet they were related to me, and they did kill themselves. Hence, the statement that suicide runs in the family was a true statement.

“He’s okay, right?” I asked my husband repeatedly, only for him to reply with a variety of answers which ultimately reflected his own mood. “He’s fine,” when he himself felt fine. “He’s lazy,” when he himself was procrastinating the chores and anxious to pass them onto his kids. “He’s fucked up,” when enraged over something related to the situation or not.

Was he fine? Was he lazy? Was he fucked up? Was he all three?

Feeling like I was betraying my son, I tentatively broached the subject with my mother. Pacing back and forth outside my house, I whispered urgently into the phone, “He’s such a tough nut to crack. I’m not sure if anything is really wrong. He’s spending all of his time alone in his room,” I grabbed onto a speck of hope while spilling the secret, confessing my fear. My mother would have some insight.

“Sounds like someone else I know,” the sarcasm rippling through the short sentence taking me aback, sending me on a journey through time to my own bedroom with the light purple walls.

“What’s the point?” I stared at the cartoon strip of Ziggy hanging on the bulletin board cut out from the Sunday funnies. ‘Depression in Session’ read the sign over Ziggy lying on the therapist’s couch.

Thinking back, wasn’t I waving a big red flag? Why wasn’t anyone concerned about that? My mother saw a cartoon about depression, saw me lying in bed all day and didn’t make the connection? It was okay to be depressed, no need to offer help, guidance, support, love? “Hey, I’m here for you if you need me.” Those words never crossed her mind? They certainly never crossed her lips.

Quickly I returned to the worn out wooden floor outside my son’s closed bedroom door. 

“Hey, I’m here for you if you need me,” I could say in a caring tone just softly enough for him to hear me, only for him to reply, “What’s your problem?”  

I leaned into the door, pressing my ear against the wood listening with horror in my heart knowing I was invading his privacy. If my mother had done that to me it would have been “a federal case”, as we had called everything in that era, punishable by a tantrum followed by extremely bad behavior.

I heard nothing behind that door. Not music. Not voices. Not the dinging of texts flying in and out. Not snoring or even breathing.

“Is he okay?” I thought. “IS HE OKAY?” I screamed in my head. 

Suicidal thoughts ricocheted around my head lying in bed in that room with the light purple walls. Not at random, fleeting moments but rather coming back teasing and tempting me at regular intervals. Ultimately I couldn’t do it, I had finally realized. I couldn’t destroy my mother’s life by ripping out her heart. 

My aunt did not have the compassion to spare her mother that horrific pain. Or maybe her own pain reached a degree I could never imagine. What were her last thoughts as she fell off the branch, the rope securely knotted above her? What were her mother’s first thoughts upon finding her? It was unbearable from every angle.

And then the heavy thud bringing me out of my walk down horror lane. I scurried away like a frightened mouse into my own bedroom, the master bedroom for two as opposed to the one with the light purple walls. My heart raced as I closed the door and leaned heavily on it, listening intently.

The thump of bass vibrated through his door and made its way through mine for the duration of a song then abruptly switched off. My son’s voice clear as day came out of the silence.  “What’s good?” then a pause followed by “Ok, see you soon,” and the creak of his bedroom door finally opening.

Timing it perfectly, I opened my door for a nonchalant stroll to the kitchen. “Hey,” I greeted him as we passed each other by. “Going out?” 

“Yeah. Heading over to Joe’s.” He pulled his hoodie over his t-shirt.

“Oh yeah? Want a bite to eat first?” 

“Nah. Probably get some Taco Bell.” 

“Gross,” I said to keep it light, to keep the conversation flowing. 

“It truly is,” he looked at me and smiled.

I looked into his clear eyes, his earnest smile. Was he okay? WAS HE OKAY?

“I love you,” I gave him a quick half hug, not wanting to be overbearing.

“Love you too,” and he was out the door.

I stood at the window with my arms crossed in front of myself watching him walk away down the narrow street. The same street that the bus had traveled upon taking him to his first day of kindergarten. The same street that he rode his bicycle on without training wheels as my husband ran alongside of him. The same street that he drove down beeping the horn after passing his road test. 

Was he okay? I watched the figure in the hoodie get smaller and smaller and then turn the corner.