A Reason to Care
It's all fun and games until somebody tries to kill himself.
I apologize. That's inappropriate. You'll have to forgive me since my cousin, this living, breathing moron in front of me, just admitted that he tried to kill himself—that at one point in time, he tried to become unliving, unbreathing—dead.
I don't know what to say. I'm out of my depth. If I say the wrong thing, who knows what he might do? Probably something dumb like try to kill himself.
It may seem like I'm not appreciating the gravity of the moment, but believe me, I'm being crushed by it. I almost don't want to believe because it's more convenient that way. In just one statement, he turned me into a dick. I know I've been a dick since day one, but I was a lower order dick, the fun kind that nobody minds because he's not being serious. All of a sudden, I've just been promoted to dick prime. Cause, you know, he tried to kill himself.
I just can't believe it. I don't want to. But why would anyone lie about something like this? It could be a cheap ploy for sympathy but that's super lame, even for him. If this was a joke, it's a shitty one. Since he isn't laughing yet, I'll take his word for it. I have to. Because not taking him seriously would make me a dick.
The sun outside fades and the shadows come creeping. It's dark. He remains still, covered in shadows, with hands clutching the sheets so tight his knuckles turn white.
And by reflex, a question escapes me. "Why?"
He looks up with an embarrassed smile. "I've been asking myself the same thing ever since I woke up in the hospital." His flippant demeanor doesn't match what he's saying. He must've seen my irritation because he starts making excuses. "It's not really a big deal. I'm past it. I didn't want to bring it up because I didn't want you to think that I was—"
"An idiot? Sorry, but that ship has already sailed. This is just icing on your shitty cake." He laughs uneasily. He drops a bomb like this and that's how he acts? Get serious. "How is this not a big deal? Isn't this the entire reason that you're here at all?"
His mouth opens and closes but nothing comes out. I don't know why I'm getting angry. Maybe it's because he's forcing me to care when I didn't have a reason to before. You can't just conjure up a tragic past out of thin air and expect me to give a damn.
That's not right. It wasn't out of thin air. There signs were there and it wasn't like I didn't have suspicions. I just thought it was something small like having no friends, maybe bullying, or losing his first love to a douchebag—clichéd high school shit—not suicide. "I just want an explanation."
I know I'm disregarding proper protocol here. I'm supposed to extend my sympathies and understanding and try to comfort him, but it's being overridden by my scorching curiosity. I'm a psychologist first, and a therapist second. I need to know because suicide is the dumbest thing I can possibly think of. Forget about the excuses—legitimate or not. I don't' care about that. For me, it's never been an option. I'm the sort that will cling to life even if I've lost all my limbs, because living is the only thing I've ever known, quality of life be damned.
"There's probably something wrong with me." I cough. "It's not like my life's a tragedy or anything. I just... I didn't care. No. That's not right. I couldn't care. I didn't know how. I had friends, but they didn't mean anything. Everything they did, everything they said—it didn't matter. Everything just seemed pointless. I couldn't understand it. People kept going on about this or that but it never made any sense. When you think about it, nothing really matters. In the end, we all die anyways."
Fatalistic to a fault; I can be depressing at times but he's got me beat on this one. It's also mindless drivel. "That doesn't answer my question."
"I know. It's hard to explain."
"Just try."
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. His locks spring back after being smoothed over. I know that feel. Spiky hair's a bitch. "Have you ever felt like you don't matter? That the world would go on just fine without you?"
"Never." It's the opposite. The world will end when I die. I am the single most important element of this world—no, the entire universe. Why should anything else matter more than me?
"Then you wouldn't understand." He's right; I wouldn't. "The past, present, future—it's all the same. There's nothing there. In all fifteen years of my life, I've never found anything important. I do things because I have to. I've never wanted anything. I've never liked anybody. I was just a zombie, surrounded by living people." He chuckles, the sound dissonant against his words. "I always hear people talk about their hopes and dreams. It's just noise. I can't say I envy them. I don't feel anything; no joy, sadness, or anger—I'm just empty." The declaration lingers poignantly. "I didn't have a reason to live."
"Or a reason to die."
"Maybe not. But I thought that something might change if I did."
"Yeah, you'd be dead."
He laughs, which only makes me angrier. I don't know what's worse: that he tried to kill himself, or that he doesn't care that he tried to kill himself. "It's not like I wanted to die. I just wanted to see what it'd be like if I…disappeared." He looks outside the window where night has fallen. "I just thought… Would anyone care?"
Suddenly, I'm struck by an incredible bolt of disappointment. For all his bluster and meandering babble, his reason for suicide was childish. "You sick son of a bitch." He didn't say it outright, but I got the gist of it—he wanted attention.
He takes my outburst in stride. "I know. You don't have to tell me. I've already heard it from my mom and the doctors. It was selfish and stupid of me." I'm an idiot. Of course he's heard it before; otherwise, he wouldn't be here. "My mom was like you. She couldn't understand why I tried to do it. It's not like I wanted the attention. I just wanted something to change. I mean, this couldn't be it, right? Everybody else knew what they were doing. They had something in mind—a destination. I didn't have that. I couldn't find it." He lets go of the sheets. "You know what I see in my future? Nothing. So I might as well skip the filler and reach the ending."
I'm speechless. Who is this guy? I once joked that he could've been a serial killer but this is just as bad. He's terrifying. His mind approaches the world from an impossible angle. I'm usually good at understanding people, but he's not a person. He's a zombie, an unliving thing. He wasn't trying to die, he was already dead.
"Anyways, it wasn't my fault," he says. "I mean, it was my fault, but it wasn't—just look in the drawer behind you."
I turn around and see his desk. I pull open the drawer. It's stocked with pill bottles. I pick one up and examine the label closely. Anti-depressants, the good stuff. This explains it. And now's there's no use denying it:
I am dick prime.
This entire conversation has been me trying to kick him while he's down, except he's already up and recovered. Clinical depression—no amount of pep talk can save him from a chemical imbalance in his brain. Once again, I am forced to confront the fact that our bloodline is totally cursed. Did my great grandfather piss on a witch's grave or something?
"Do these actually work?"
"Sometimes. I've got good days and bad days. It really depends."
I put the bottle back and close the drawer. If he had started off with clinical depression, he could've spared me this entire roller coaster of wrong ideas and misinterpretations.
I collapse on his desk chair. I've been standing up this entire time. It was just an intimidation tactic to force the truth out but now I'm just tired. He remains on the edge on the bed, acting nonchalant about the whole thing. "So you're already taken care of."
"More or less. That's why I didn't want to bring it up. It's not an issue anymore. I'm already working through it. You don't have to do anything."
"I see…" That's a load off my mind. For a second there, I thought I was gonna have to deal with a new can of worms I have no business handling. Suicide prevention is not on my CV, although I haven't been particularly successful in matchmaking or solving mysteries from the past either. Jeez, what am I good for?
It's nice to stumble into a solved problem for once. Xion's warning sounded suspiciously like a new side quest, and considering the number of open entries in my journal, I did not need an extra distraction.
But with this new piece of information, things are coming together. His desperate, almost comical attempts at human connection finally make sense. He may have lost a reason to die, but he's still looking for reasons to live. That's why he's latching on to any girl he sees. He just wants to feel something, to be human, to be like all the idiots at our school.
I know that feel too.
When I think about it, he's been screwing with me from the start. There's dense, and then there's that special brand of deliberate denseness that he's a master practitioner of. In some twisted fashion, he enjoys the attention I give him, negative or not. There's gotta be healthier ways of attention whoring.
"Okay. Fine. You're working through it," I concede. "The only thing I want to know is... Are you ever going to do it again?"
"I don't know," he answers honestly. "Some days, I feel fine, and on others, dying doesn't sound so bad."
"Please don't." He may be working through things on his own, but that doesn't mean I can't help. I don't understand why he tried to die and I'll probably never will, but I do understand why he wants to live. That's what we have in common: we're both trying desperately to be normal despite our handicaps.
"Unlike you, Roxas, I care. I can't stop caring. That's who I am. I care too much about the things that don't matter, and that includes you. You're not supposed to be important, but for some reason, the idea of you dying makes me want to die, and since I have no interest in dying, please don't."
I'm a selfish dick. I've come to terms with that. But I can tell when somebody feels bad, and when they feel bad, it makes me feel bad, and that's not cool. The only reason I want the people around me to be happy is so that I don't have to deal with nonsense that shouldn't have anything to do with me—except that it does. I don't have enough fingers to count the times I've been dragged into another person's problem. I care because it's the only way I can find peace in this chaotic mess of a world.
"If you can't care, then I'll care enough for the both of us." I look him in the eyes, willing all the encouragement I can muster through my gaze. "Don't try to kill yourself again."
Maybe it's my words, or maybe it's the drugs, but his eyes turn glassy. He lets his easy smile fall, allowing a peaceful expression to take over. "Thanks, Sora."
"You're welcome."
There's a pause. I can almost hear the gears spinning in our heads. We've bared our darkest secrets to each other and we're just waiting for the other shoe to drop. There's a script for every situation in life, but we never have enough practice when it's time for the real deal. We make do and improvise. Whether or not it works, that's up for the other person to decide.
"Sorry about all the things I've done," he says. "I know you get annoyed when I bring attention to you."
Ha! I knew it. "Was it all an act?"
"I don't want it to be."
For once, I agree. "It wasn't. You're still an idiot cousin I have to put up with. That won't change." So what if he tried to kill himself? We all make mistakes, some graver than others. One ill-fated decision shouldn't define a person, and I won't allow it to define him. I move over to the door and flip the light switch. The room brightens instantly. "Can I ask you something?"
"What is it?"
"Do you actually like Xion?"
He thinks about it, rubbing the back of his head nervously. "I don't know. I think I do. All these feelings—they're totally new to me. I can't make sense of them." He's still in the adjustment period.
"Maybe you should figure them out before doing anything," I suggest.
"That sounds like a good idea."
Of course it is, because I'm the one who came up with it. "Love isn't always the answer. You don't have to force yourself. Just take it one step at a time."
That's what I'm doing. In some ways, we're in the same boat. We're not in a state to love anybody. My body won't allow it and his mind won't. But just because we're incapable of love, does that mean we are denied happiness? I don't believe that. Love isn't happiness. It's the other way around. It's when we're happy that we learn how to love. Roxas was attempting to skip the filler and reach the ending.
In fact, I think the requirements for happiness are lower than what most people expect. I only know this because I've barely met them myself.
It's friendship.
As long as you're not alone, as long as there's someone there for you, there's always the possibility of happiness. It's still love, but not the sort that everyone's obsessed with.
"Then what should I do?" he asks.
"You don't have to do anything, because you've already cleared the first step."
"What's that?"
"Find a friend—me." His face offers immense gratitude. "Just don't bother me too much with your problems." Yup, I just had to go ahead and ruin the moment. "But that's why you got other friends, right? Just keep popping those pills and maybe one day, you'll find a reason to care."
After all, it's the only thing I know how to do.