I must say, this really hit me. I'm a bit nervous to post it... I've wanted to write about Zoey for a long time, but I could never quite come up with an idea. So after all this time, here it is!
Clouds bathe the world in white, creating an illusion of purity. Rain makes its way in heavy streams, casting the planet cold. The car is warm from the heater, but soon I'll have to open the door and face the wind and rain again. I cross my arms, glad that Mike brought my favourite grey sweater when he picked me up. It's gotten so frayed at the sleeves that I'd stopped wearing it―I was surprised that he could tell I still liked it. He cares about me so much…
I'm ashamed to look at him, but that doesn't stop my gaze from meandering his way. He tightly grips the steering wheel to hide his shaking hands, his posture rigid and tense. I'm surprised that he can hold whatever he's feeling back.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "Uh… Thanks for picking me up."
The rain continues steadily outside the car. Mike mutters, "Uh-huh."
"You're kind of making me nervous…" I shift in my seat. "Are you mad at me?"
"Nope." We reach a crosswalk. He brings the car to a complete stop and looks both ways for non-existent traffic. He makes a point of not looking at me. Slowly, he starts the car again, driving down the wet asphalt.
"You seem like you're mad at me…"
"I don't wanna talk about it. You're okay now. That's all that matters." He makes a turn, running into a stoplight. The car comes to a gentle idle. Ashamed of myself, I look down at my lap.
"You really don't want to talk about it?"
He taps on the steering wheel impatiently. The light seems to stay red forever.
"Mike…" I gulp. "This isn't something we can ignore. I mean, you just picked me up from a hospital."
The second the light turns green, he speeds across the street. Houses and buildings blur together in an incomprehensible mess. This is the kind of reckless speeding I'd expect from Vito or Manitoba.
"Okay, fine!" I lay my hands palm-up on my lap. "We don't have to talk about it if it upsets you."
He grimaces. Realizing how fast he was driving, he slows down. "I want to talk about it if it'll help you. Of course I'm upset, but…"
His anxiety is creeping up, feeding my guilt. I would love to spend some time spilling my guts―I want Mike to know why I did it, to understand the mindset I was in. But he looks so vulnerable, like he'll cry at any moment just thinking about it.
"I'm fine now," I assure. "I'm still alive. We don't have to talk about it."
"No… No, we do." We turn into a parking lot. Before I know what's happening, Mike is facing me with tears in his eyes. My heart sinks. I caused this.
"Why?" he asks, horrified and dumbfounded. "Why would you even think about doing something like that? Were you thinking at all?"
After the car ride's silence, this frantic stretch of questions hits me right in the stomach. My hand finds the tight bandages on my left wrist. The simplest answer―the only answer―makes me sound like a seven-year-old. "I was sad."
He stares at me. His hands come off the steering wheel at a maddeningly slow rate. Unbuckling his seat belt, he turns toward me and tilts his head. That sentence, coming from my mouth, is incomprehensible.
"You… were… sad." He repeats, as though the words are foreign. I can see the questions forming in his mind, and I nod to encourage them. He'll never understand if he doesn't ask. "Was it… Did I do something?"
"No."
His face falls anyway. "Was it one of the others? Vito, maybe?"
"No. It was nothing like that." I frown.
"Was it Mal?" he gasps in horror. "I thought he was gone! I promise, I-I didn't… I wouldn't want you around me if I knew he was still here!"
"It wasn't Mal either! It wasn't any of you! Damn it, Mike, it was me!"
I've never yelled at him. We're both shocked that I can scream like that at all. He pulls back from me, his wide brown eyes filling me with shame.
"Sorry," I whisper.
"I-It's fine. Just… Tell me what happened."
The rain picks up outside, knocking harder on the car. A part of me wants to throw the door open and let it in. "I was sad because of me. Because I'm…"
The words die before they're born. Because I'm all alone, I had wanted to say. That's always been the reason. That was the origin of my angst. That was the reason I'd give my mother when she'd take off her rose-coloured glasses and see me as I was. But I'm not alone anymore― Mike is right here in front of me, and he's everything I've ever wanted. Making friends was supposed to cure me.
It fucking didn't. I'm still upset, even if I'm not alone. And how can I explain that? How can I explain to the boy with multiple personalities how miserable it is to be alone? He's always had somebody with him, sharing in his experiences and emotions. He's been in therapy since he could remember, so he learned how to vocalize his problems; I could never put my sadness into words. I never had anyone to talk to, not in my head, not in an office. How do I explain this?
"It's just that… sometimes everything is too much. Sometimes I want to… get rid of it."
"By trying to kill yourself?"
The way he says it makes me feel like an over-reacting idiot. Maybe I did over-react when I grabbed the razor, but it all seemed so logical at the time…
"I'm sorry, Zoey, but I still don't get it." He looks down for a moment. "You seemed so happy."
"Just because I smiled doesn't mean I was happy. Half the time I smile, I want to burst into tears." I sink down in my chair, leaning my face on the soft upholstery. "You never noticed? The way I don't talk back, the way I do whatever I'm told? The way I'd stay quiet whenever Vito or Anne Maria mocked me? Did you really think I pushed all of that stress away because I was just that damn cheerful?"
"Well… yeah." He keeps his eyes on me, but I know he wants to look away. "You never said you were upset, so I assumed you were okay."
"Everybody does. That's why I keep smiling." My eyes get watery, and I'm shocked I still have tears left. "I hate myself."
"No, you don't…"
"Yes, I do. It took me sixteen years to make two friends. I grew up surrounded by people who were nothing like me. No one acknowledged my existence―my own mother has a habit of forgetting about me. And this has been happening my entire life. Why is it a surprise to people that the friendless outcast is depressed?"
His voice is small, like a child's would be. "Because you seemed happy."
"Well, I'm not. And if people knew what depression really looked like, maybe someone would've noticed!" My tears run down my face like the ribbons of rain outside.
"I-I didn't mean to make you cry. Oh my God―"
"No! This has nothing to do with you! You're wonderful! I'm the one who's a waste of space. I'm the one nobody ever liked. I'm the weird, unlikable kid who people don't even notice. It has nothing to do with you!"
"But you're not unlikable! Stop saying that! I like you. I like you a lot. I'm sorry that I suck at cheering people up. I'm sorry that I never noticed how sad you were…" He sags in his seat, head falling down. "I'm sorry, Zoey…"
Never have I seen him so close to tears. Even when he found me on the bathroom floor, my wrists slit open, I don't remember him crying. Now he's on the edge of sobbing, and it sickens me. He would be a wreck if I didn't survive. Hell, with his disorder, he might have crawled into his head and never came out. What kind of horrible, selfish person am I? How dare I put him through so much misery just to end my pain?
"I'm okay now," I assure him, putting on my best fake smile. "I'm still alive."
"For how long?"
I can't answer. He knows that, and he seems to regret asking. We stare at each other.
"You should've told me. I might not have understood, but I could've helped."
"You really couldn't tell? N-not even a little?" I hate the way my voice breaks.
"I had no idea. Sometimes you seemed stressed or angry, but you never seemed… suicidal." He whispers the last word like a curse.
He's kind of right. I've been depressed for years, but never to the point of suicide. I have considered it. I have wondered if it would work. I have wondered how I would do it, where I might go, and who might miss me. But to consider something in a passing thought is completely different than acting on it―I never thought I actually would. I don't even know what happened that made me finally try, but here I am with a bandaged wrist and a shattered heart. So in a way, he is justified.
But it hurts to know that he didn't see it. Mike is the person I'm closest to; he knows me better than anyone I've ever met. I trust him completely, and I know the feeling is mutual. You would think he'd be suspicious at least… That he would know, on some level, that I was forging my confidence. Then again, I've had six years to practice hiding it. It's my one true skill. If my smile was a shield, I could be Captain America.
"Please tell me the next time you feel that way," Mike says. "I want to help you."
The magnitude of this offer seems lost on him. Does he not know what a burden depression can be? Suicide is too scary to attempt again, but that doesn't cure the sadness. He already has so much to deal with: his multiple personalities, his memory problems, his parental issues, the looming threat of Mal's return… And now, a girlfriend who hates herself.
No. I can't dump my emotions on someone who needs more help than I do. Especially not someone I care about.
"I'll tell you. Next time I'm depressed, I'll tell you everything." The lie adds another knot of guilt to my stomach, but it's worth it.
"Thank you. I just… don't want to lose you again."
"I'll be fine." My fake smile slides into place like it's meant to be there. "Right now, I just feel hungry. How about we get something to eat?"
He nods, pulling back on his seatbelt. I don't deserve to hold his hand, so I grab my bandaged wrist again. All the while, I tell myself that it will be fine. I can keep this hidden. Depression is a swirling storm, but I've always weathered it alone.