I have a lot of catching up to do, so...ff chapter-spam! (lol - IDK. I blame the Red Bull.) Apologies to all of you who have this on email alerts.
Spoilers for all seasons up through all aired episodes of Season 6.
November 12, 2009
5:12 pm
Okay. Everything's okay. I mean, I knew Wilson's always been a little, you know. Neurotic. And I know he takes anti-depressants, and I know that taking them means he's depressed, and since he's been taking them for so long that he needed the dosage upped three years ago, it must be clinical depression. Long term, neurochemistry-driven depression. The kind you can't fix with scenery changes and scrumptious desserts, or by winning the lottery, or anything for that matter. I knew that. But Wilson's Wilson. He takes happy pills and he does his thing, and he smiles all goofy like, and he bangs every nurse he can flash his stupid dimples at. He's well-adjusted. I mean, I know better, but to everyone else, he's Mister Dependability. I know he's screwed up, but he's dependably, consistently screwed up. There's a method to Wilson's madness.
Except lately, for the past year and a half, instead of following his usual routines, he's been coming home alone to an empty apartment and talking to his dead girlfriend because he can't let anything go. I knew that too (except for the ghost-whispering part), but the whole coming back thing was so weird and awkward that I didn't want to jeopardize it. And yeah, that sort of makes me a little selfish. Before Amber, I wouldn't have hesitated to call him on it and tell him he was in a rut and then annoy him until he climbed out of it. We can add that to yet another in the long list of things that Amber's death screwed up.
Anyway, I kept thinking all day that Wilson's whole Amber-purge and the come-home thing, and the entire rest of yesterday was just too out of character for him. And then this morning, he wasn't being typical Wilson about me coming straight home after my shift. Not even typical in the Wilson's-a-manipulative-bitch-siccing-therapy-sessions-on-me sense. Typical Wilson would be, "Are you coming home right away, or should I warn all the local bars that your credit cards are no good?" This morning's Wilson just kept giving me these intense, creepy looks. "You're coming home after work, right? Promise? House, promise me." Not to mention yesterday's hug and the begging me to come home with him.
Wilson had a board meeting at four, so when I got here, I figured I had almost two hours before he showed up. I didn't mean to go snooping for once, I swear. I know it sounds un-me to not sift through Wilson's underwear drawer looking for clues or secret clubhouse diaries, but this is supposed to be post-Mayfield bliss, and good friends offer to talk when they think something's bothering their bestest bud. Except talking hasn't worked so far, and sometimes, I think Wilson is more of a fortress than I am. That whole persona thing he insists on wearing. So, I decided that his odd behavior (yes, even considering what I've been like the past few days, I find it odd) warranted me snooping just a little bit. It wouldn't even be real snooping. I collected some dirty laundry and I dusted some stuff. And then I dusted again because Wilson yells at me for dusting with a dry towel or the feathery thing. He thinks Pledge protects him from demonic invasion, or something.
So I dusted some stuff, and I had to move all of his tchotchkes off the top of his dresser to do it because he gets his undies in a bunch if I leave dust rings around objects. Well, he has this ornate wooden box on his dresser for holding personal crap like monogrammed cuff links and wedding rings. (The freak still has all three sets of wedding rings, plus two of the engagement rings. Seriously, Wilson. PAWN THEM. And then use the proceeds to buy a blow-up doll. Consider it a reasonable step on the road to not catching an STD.) Anyway, it was way heavier than I thought it would be – the thing is made with good wood. (God, I wish that were a metaphor.)
Anyhow, that's not important. I'm only making lame ass jokes because I'm seriously scared shitless right now. Nolan would be proud of me for admitting that the mockery is a defense mechanism. Whatever. I wish he were here because then he could handle this.
I accidentally dropped Wilson's keepsake box, one of the hinges broke off, and his stuff ended up all over the floor. Not just cuff links and pathetic reminders of his failure to keep it in his pants. He had a kit in there too, which makes sense. He works with terminal patients who typically die over the course of weeks, in excruciating pain the whole time. I know he's done it. So have I. That's not what scared me. What scared me was the half a note stuffed in with the morphine. I think it was the start of a suicide note. He dated it for the ninth and addressed it to me. Started off with the "I'm sorry" bullshit and then progressed to some tripe about how it's all his fault. Not conclusive, really, but conclusive enough. I know him.
I should have seen it. I mean, I did, I saw everything, but I should have figured out what it meant. I mean, Christ. Back in April when I had Taub steal his emails and that list of articles on suicide came up – back then, I knew it was plausible. Hell, it worried me enough to pry even farther into his business until I could prove that he wasn't messing around with that J. Gonzales. If it weren't so believable, that Wilson might actually be thinking about it or idealizing it or something, I dunno, I would have assumed he was "collaborating" with the suicide chick for some "purely professional" reason. I didn't, though. Because I knew better. And this whole time, now – since he came back, since I came back, both – it's been right there. The whole keeping her stuff exactly where she left it, and the talking to her, and the leaving her clothes hanging up in the closet. I knew he was still completely messed up.
But…god…he's Wilson. He's supposed to fix the world like an obsessive missionary. And yeah, he's a screwball and he's got issues coming out his ears, but he's not… He's supposed to be that way, and be fine. He's not supposed to get broken.
Shit. The front door just opened. I have to go.
November 12, 2009
8:24pm
Wilson swears he's not suicidal. Up and down, sideways and diagonally not suicidal. But he had that look, like he wasn't lying exactly, but it wasn't the whole truth. I don't know what that means. He's not suicidal, but he wouldn't mind screwing himself up a little bit just to have an outlet? That sounds like me, not him. I know we're a little bit alike, but still. That's not him. It's me, and it's pathetic, and Wilson's above that. Or he should be. God, did I ruin him or something? Is that, like, penance for hanging around me for too long? I wouldn't be surprised. I'm like a cancer.
Ha. I'm Wilson's cancer. House-kins lymphoma. Sickle-cell House-kemia. Slow and painful death. Life expectancy, thirty years if caught early and resected. If allowed to fester, imminent morbidity. Takes over every aspect of your life until you fucking kill yourself to end it. Nice.
Yeah, Nolan wouldn't like to hear me talking about myself as if I'm a disease. Like he would know, right? Because I am the embodiment of sunshine and daisies, and feral kittens love me, and all is right as rain when I'm around.
Eh. Does this blog have a bullshit filter? It should. Like that klaxon from Star Trek. And not all that newfangled franchise shit, no. The real Star Trek with motherfucking Kirk and Spock, and the tricorders fourteen times as big as a modern cell phone. Yeah, that. I want that klaxon in my coat pocket. Then I can follow Wilson around and oh-so-secretly set it off when he starts in with the flirty lines and the double-speak he uses to get laid.
Or not. For all I know, getting laid is the only outlet he's got short of using that kit in his bedroom. I took it, by the way. And I made him watch me pour the morphine down the drain. He didn't try to stop me, which I find telling. If he really intended to use that crap to ease the suffering of his patients, he would have tried to stop me. Nothing gets in the way of Wilson treating patients. Or helping them die, if that's what it comes to. Palliative care at its finest, I guess. That can't be easy, giving a crap about your patients while knowing that soon, they'll be dying in agony right in front of you. Wilson hasn't really got the stones for that. He never did. Maybe he only became an oncologist to punish himself. Seems simplistic, but who knows. This is Wilson, right? The Irredeemable Martyr?
I don't know what to do about him. At least with him being all weird, I'm not focusing on myself anymore. That has to count for something. I'd almost suspect he was fucking with me, except I know him a little better than that, and suicidal ideation for entertainment sake isn't his style. It would be cruel to fake that, and Wilson can't be deliberately cruel. Stupidly and densely and blindly cruel, yeah. But not deliberately.
I'll watch him. If he won't (or can't) admit it, then there's nothing else I can do, right?
I wish somebody was actually reading this so they could answer that. Maybe I can ask Nolan. It's his field, right? (In theory. I still think he's a well-practiced quack.)
Wilson's under the mistaken impression that I'm going to that conference with him tomorrow. I keep telling him no, but I'm going now. I sort of have to, I think. Not that he has to know that I intend to go, but I'm going if I have to drive down there myself. Period. I took a nap earlier and had this nightmare that Cuddy called me to say Wilson didn't show up for his presentation, and then I went down there and found him. You know. Dead. But he had bruises all over his body like Amber, and he cold like her, and Chase said they cooled him down so I could come say goodbye. It was creepy. Like wake-up-in-a-cold-sweat creepy. No way it's happening. No. Just no. I should talk to him or something, but I hate being a hypocrite. What am I supposed to say, huh? Killing yourself is bad, and oh by the way, all those times I (nearly) killed myself, I was kidding. Haha! Gotcha. Now don't do it.
Like that would work, coming from me. He'd laugh in my face. Thing is, he'd be right to do it. Laugh, I mean. Like I never at least think about how much easier it would be if I just weren't here. But Wilson's Wilson. He doesn't have to contemplate that shit. He's...Wilson. That should be enough.
...
Somebody tell me what to do.
