Author's Note:
I was feeling particularly angsty and depressed today and this is the result.
I didn't read this through after I wrote this, so this probably doesn't live up to my usual standards. It's probably a load of bull. Apologies in advance.
Trigger warning for depression and anxiety.
The panic slams into him as soon as he closes the apartment door behind him.
It doesn't come out of the blue, not really anyway. And it shouldn't. He should be used to it by now. After all, it happens almost every night when he comes home from work and doesn't have any obligations waiting for him to keep him distracted. And yet, it comes as enough of a surprise and with enough force to squeeze all the air from his lungs in a single whizz, and he wonders if today is going to be the day his pain will finally consume him, choke him long enough that he'll suffocate. And maybe, just maybe this is what he wants. To suffocate. To no longer feel. To no longer be.
The thoughts shocks him, fills him with a terror he hasn't even felt during the most brutal firefights in Afghanistan.
Because he doesn't want to die. Never has.
So where is this coming from?
He was fine all day.
Sure, getting out of bed every morning takes him a little bit longer than it used to. So does getting through his morning routine. Every step he takes feels heavier now, more sluggish, and he feels like he's walking around in a dense fog all the freaking time.
As soon as he's out the door and on his way to work, he's usually fine.
He works hard, just like he always has. He works harder even because when his mind is occupied, there's no room for intrusive thoughts. It's a welcome distraction, it makes him feel useful, needed, like he has a purpose. It's why he starts just a bit earlier now. It's why he cuts his breaks short or skips them altogether. It's why he often stays after everyone else left for the day. It's why he puts in for overtime on the slower days and his days off, just as often as he can get away with without making Trudy, or anyone else for that matter, suspicious. He jokes and laughs with his coworkers and once or twice a week he joins them for a beer at Molly's.
But he's only fine for so long.
When he comes home, when he's alone, reality comes crashing down.
Some nights are better than others. Some nights he numbs his mind by watching a game or one documentary after the other.
Some nights he finds the strength to pick up all the dirty coffee mugs and dinner plates and half-empty pizza boxes and takeout containers that he left scattered all over the apartment in the span of a week or so.
Some nights he's restless enough that he slips into his running shoes and pounds the pavement for a mile or ten until he's exhausted himself enough to fall asleep as soon as his body hits the mattress.
Most nights he doesn't make it any farther than his armchair before the intrusive thoughts paralyze him. Those are the nights he dreads the most. Those are the nights when it all comes crashing down on him, the reality of how dull and depressing his life has become. Those are the nights when he sits staring into nothingness, shaking all over, ugly tears shamelessly streaking down his face, hysteric sobs escaping his throat and reverberating from the walls, and his chest constricting so painfully that he feels like he's going into cardiac arrest.
He never does.
The tears always dry, the sobs always ebb off, and the pain always eases just enough so that he can breathe again. But the constant pressure, the heaviness, the hopelessness and despair… those never really go away. Instead, the aftershocks of his panic ripple through his bones, shake him to the core until late into the night, sometimes waking him up an hour or two later, leaving him gasping for air and wishing for sleep to claim him before another panic attack sideswipes him.
Jay is no stranger to depression. He's no stranger to anxiety either. He knows he's up to his throat in both. He's been there and he's gotten through both more times than he can count, more times than he likes to admit.
But something feels different this time. It doesn't feel like he can get out of his slump this time.
Not a day goes by without him drowning in immense guilt and shame and self-loathing. Not a day goes by without an overwhelming sense of loss either.
He's alone.
It's a reality he lives in, a reality he knows he should accept but can't. That he's coming home to an empty apartment, knowing there's nothing in it, no one waiting for him. And there's no one waiting for him anywhere else either.
All he has now is work, and even though he knows he's good at his job, even though he knows he's doing some good for the city, it doesn't fix the giant leaking hole in his heart, and he doesn't have the strength to patch it up or fill it with something other than more work.
And as much as it serves as a distraction throughout the day, as much as he forgets about all the guilt and shame and loss, he carries around with him, the hole only grows bigger and bigger, the edges ragged and tattered, and he doesn't get any closer to a turning point for the better, a turning point towards healing.
It's not that easy. It's never that easy, and he knows he should know that by now.
Healing isn't linear. There are ups and downs and a whole lot of plateaus in between where there's neither progress nor regress, just a whole lot of waiting and second-guessing. And he knows with every time he gets trapped in the seemingly never-ending spiral, it only gets harder. It only gets harder for him to put himself back together limb by limb, from his distal phalanges all the way up to the crown of his head. It only gets harder to scramble back on his feet, find his footing, find a sense of balance, find enough strength to keep moving, to keep trying, to keep fighting. For himself and for everyone else who depends on him in one way or another.
The thing is, he doesn't know if anyone depends on him anymore.
The thing is, he doesn't know if he even has anyone left to fight for.
The thing is, all the people he cares about either left him or died, and the few who didn't he pushed them away and hurt them beyond repair.
Maybe this is his punishment for all the horrible things he's done. As much as he tries to redeem himself, as much as he tries to prove to himself and anyone else that he's not a bad person, he knows he's not a good person either. He's not worthy of anyone's time, he doesn't deserve their support or their forgiveness, and he most certainly isn't worthy of anyone's love. And maybe it's time for him to finally accept that.
Thanks for reading.
Take care.