My back hurts, one of the underappreciated symptoms of depression, because we hurt, we hurt. I'm also sure my stiffness comes from the floor. It's the gasoline to the fiery spikes in my back. They weigh a ton when I inhale. Don't feel sorry for me, it wasn't always like this, I've owned furniture.
This isn't some rags to riches or lottery story, unless winning shit is winning. I have nothing because I chose to have nothing, bequeathed, what others would assume is my identity to the world. I wouldn't need it where I was going, and frankly none of it mattered to be there when I returned, because simply, I wasn't coming back. You'd think I would've been smarter giving it away to people I knew. Dumb Dee might as well have screamed to everyone "HEY I'M PLANNING TO OFF MYSELF!" I was going for an Eat, Prey, Love vibe, with a dash of Wild, and my favorite story Count The Stars and You Will Know. I guess not enough people read that last one. The white half believed it, having seen those movies, the black half didn't understand, the indifferent half was happy to have a nice lie tucked into there conscience, and the worried half had me committed.
They were trouble, the kind that would warm your heart if you really didn't want to die. They saw your cry for help, the horizontal marks on your wrist, you weren't serious, you wanted help. I didn't, mine would've been vertical, I wanted to be left alone. Some people never get what they want.
So, I woke up, after screaming and clawing at anything that moved, lying on my side, zip-tied, hog tied, crazy tied, on the floor, in a room with no windows, and no seat cover on the toilet. This wouldn't be the last floor I slept on.
They had no right. The fucking do-gooders, no one asks permission to be here, no one should have to ask permission to leave. It was mine, I giveth, I taketh away. So now I had to figure out how to make them happy, the selfish assholes. My Crate and Barrel, cashmere sweaters, and colorful pashmina sets should've been enough. I had to smile, and nod, and hug these assholes like I was grateful. I might've missed my calling as an actor. Maybe being a photographer helped me see the ways people acted for each other. I could capture the glint, and spark in their eyes, and now I could mimic it. They needed this, I reminded myself. Give them the living funeral they've asked for.
"I just miss them, but I know the only way to keep them alive is to keep myself alive, it's in memory that they survive…," sniffle, sniffle, half-smile, before the tears.
Yeah, the tears of pure rage. I let out a little puff of air as a few scattered claps came from "audience."
The director of my film was Counselor Carol. I fucking hate Counselor Carol. She was smiling and doing that no-blinking, head nodding- thing serious mental health practitioners do when they really want you to know that this, this is the way to get healthy. Work their preposterous system and you could go back to living in misery like the rest of everyone else. Cause how dare you try and leave.
Astonishingly I had the energy for this, a welcome dichotomy to the aches. When enough sniffling and plastic glint shown in my eyes, I was finally able to receive privileges to move about the patchouli and bleach laden halls, then came the time to the courtyard where I gazed at flowers and stared at the sky hopefully, and finally a day field trip. I summoned all my masks and grit into giving an Oscar performance to ask for that day pass.
"One of the last pictures I shot before my family died was the golden gate bridge. I have seen it so many times, it seems like it would have no meaning, but that last piece, that last photo before everything turned is so much more now, that bridge represents a change for me, a crossing if you will."
I put my hand to my chest (break a leg on this Nicole Kidman).
"I just need to see it, you know, I need to use that bridge to cross into the next part of my life, it would really help me heal."
Counselor Carol nodded, she had a kind of inscrutable hubris about her eyes, her face really. She signed the forms, I went up to the podium and got my Oscar for Best Actress. I strolled off and thanked my fans, those lovely worried people who got me here, Counselor Carol for getting me the tools to execute my role. All the little people. That's what they looked like as I climbed the rocky path to my reward. I didn't need a gun for this, or sharp objects; just good ol' gravity. Now that was something no one could fuck up.
There were a few horns and maybe the screech of tires, I didn't know. I'd only stood on the street a moment before grabbing the metal railing, putting my feet on top, and jumping.
I can't really describe what it felt like, I may find words for it one day, but frankly I am too pissed off to truly articulate the feeling. The smack travels at alarming rates from the tips of your toes to your head. The absorption from the impact shakes your bones to test what they are made of. I guess I'm made of pretty sturdy stuff. Or it, is. Cause see I don't really know what came next. But whatever it was is the reason my back hurts now and why I'm lying on the hard floor in an abandon house.