Sheryl Crow, Eat Your Heart Out

TW: Suicide and mental health topics.

“I have been the last voice many people have heard before they died. That’s not hyperbole; that’s fact. It’s a strange reality to come to terms with, knowing that your words – your tone, your pauses, the breath between sentences – might be the last tether someone has to this world. 

“At first, I didn’t realize the weight of it. It was just a part of the job. But over time, it crept on me. The quiet moment after the line goes dead, when the room is filled with nothing but my own breathing, became the hardest part. I wonder about them – who they were, what they loved, and who they left behind. 

“Each time, I told myself not to think too much about it. It was easier that way. With every call, the weight of the responsibility grew heavier. What do you say to someone when you know those might be the last words they’ll ever hear? How do you fill the silence between life and death? 

“One time, this elderly man called and told me that he was having a heart-attack. He sounded frightened. He asked about how long the medics would be until they got there. I told him we weren’t allowed to give out estimated times of arrival for safety reasons. He understood. I assured him that I could stay on the line with him until they arrived since he was all alone. 

“He said ‘don’t you worry about me, I’ll be fine.’ A few more pleasantries, a polite decline to stay on the line, and that was it. Minutes later, the medics found him shot, the police on my line asking if I’d heard anyone in the background. I didn’t, he was scared. Maybe he was scared because someone was there?

“The officer got on scene and apparently, he had a self-inflicted wound to the back of the head. Often times, elderly people who want to commit suicide will call 911 so that the medics find their body instead of their families. It’s fairly common, unfortunately. 

“They all haunt me, you know. I will never forget his voice and I hope that I provided a little bit of comfort and solace for him in the end. I guess I will never know…” 

I looked up at my date across the table. They were staring, eyes glossed over, and jaw agape. I paused and searched my brain. 

“I’m sorry, what was the question?” I asked. 

“Uhm… what do you do for fun?” 

I grimaced. Why can’t I just be normal? My mind raced, trying to rewind the conversation and remember where I’d lost them. Was it before the suicide story or during? Too late to recover now. 

I cleared my throat, forcing a smile, and leaned back in my chair. “For fun, though? Well… I uh, really enjoy kayaking?” It came out more like a question than an answer. 

My date blinked, clearly unsure how to respond. “Kayaking?” 

“Yeah. You know, fresh air, water, serene. Not nearly as macabre as this conversation as been,” I laughed awkwardly, hoping humor would lighten the mood, but it landed flat. 

They laughed nervously, glancing down at their plate. “Yeah… I wasn’t expecting all that.” 

I let out a long breath, “Honestly, me neither.” 

A moment of silence hung between us and I thought about how much easier it is to talk to strangers on the phone, guiding them through their worst nightmares. But here, sitting across the table from someone trying to get to know me? It’s like I’m drifting, trying to find a shoreline that keeps slipping further away.

“What about you?” I asked, trying to shift the focus. “What do you do for fun?” 

I didn’t score a second date. I never do. 

It’s funny, in a sad sort of way. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been searching for the manual on “being normal.” I never got it, and I doubt I ever will. There’s this invisible line between me and other people – like I’m looking through a window, watching them live these simple, uncomplicated lives that I can’t seem to understand. 

It wasn’t always this way. As a kid, I tried to fit in, to be the version of “me” I thought people wanted. But when you grow up with parents who barely see you, let alone care enough to teach you how to be… anything, really, it messes with you. I can count on one hand the number of times my mom asked me how my day was. My dad? Forget it. He wasn’t around long enough to care. 

That kind of neglect shapes you in ways you can’t see until later. It teaches you to keep your feelings hidden because, deep down, you think no one wants to hear them anyway. You learn to sit quietly, observing, blending in to the background like a piece of furniture. The thing is, you can only do that for so long until the cracks start to show. 

So I talk too much, or I say the wrong thing at the wrong time. Like on that date. It’s like I forget how to filter myself for the audience, and all the stuff that’s been buried deep inside comes pouring out. The stuff about death, about holding strangers’ hands through the worst moments of their lives. It’s too heavy for dinner conversation, especially on the first date, I know that. But somehow, I can’t help it. 

It's not that I don’t want to be normal. I do. I want to be able to sit across from someone and talk about mundane things – favorite movies, dream vacations, stupid pet tricks. But I can’t help feeling like that version of me doesn’t exist. Like maybe, after everything, I’m not wired for small talk. 

I glance at the clock. Another minute ticks by. I wonder if my date is still replaying our horrible conversation in their head, trying to figure out what the hell happened. 

I used to think that my childhood was the accident – just one of those things you can’t control. That growing up in a house where love was an afterthought had broken something in me that could never be fixed. But in the end you see… the accident was me.