After my PTSD episodes, the DARK THOUGHTS come.
I was told that I am not always my thoughts, they are just thoughts that I have.
How are we not our thoughts? I argued. We are embedded in every internal monologue, every negotiation, every opinion that floats to the top of our heads. We are of our thoughts and our thoughts are of us. We're always thinking of ourselves, anyway.
The other day I walked along a bridge. A mother and daughter leaned over the railing, peering down at the floating ducks who have just returned in time for spring. The little girl's bike was parked a few feet from her. A sick part of me imagined taking the bike and hurtling it over the rails and into the green water below. I didn't do this of course. I still felt bad. A wise, licensed professional would tell me these intrusive thoughts are normal, to let them come and go, but it still bothers me that I am attached to this ugly thought, the wickedness that has settled and becomes the grime of my heart.
The DARK THOUGHTS are a fresh reminder of sinewy truth: I don't deserve to be alive. I should have been more responsible. It was all my fault.
The fallout is worse than the bomb.
When the DARK THOUGHTS surface, I stay in my room and don't speak to anyone. It only takes an hour for someone to notice and knock on my door (it's usually open). From there I'll find myself in a plush chair in the office of a university therapist who tells me I need to let myself feel out my emotions no matter how emasculating it seems and then refer me to a center downtown that I can't afford so they can stick octopus-like wires to my head and conduct "behavioral therapy," then I shell out $12.00 for the session (yay student discount), go home and wait to feel better.
It's a terrifying circle of events. Rather than appreciate good times, I become fearful, knowing my past will parallel with, then crash into my present.
So even after spending that lovely day with Craig, the hours after he dropped me off were difficult.
I couldn't bother anyone: Cartman was tattooing. Stan was also tattooing, but the way it sounded coming from his cubicle made it sound like he was fucking the client. We don't get moaners very often, but Stan told me later that this woman wailed every time he so much as pulled a tiny scale line in the tail of her mermaid. I would understand if the mermaid were somewhere sensitive, but it was her upper arm. The pain-pleasure scale is really glitched for some people. I wanted to call Wendy, but she was in the middle of a 12-hour shift and I didn't want to bother her with my DARK THOUGHTS, though her pragmatic perspective would have helped.
Kenny was at the front showing someone body jewelry when I walked in, shivering in the air conditioning with my damp hair and clothes.
"Hey, dude, I was just about to call you," he said. The woman he was helping politely smiled up at me then continued looking into the glass counter.
"It's cool. Craig drove me here."
"Who?"
"Oh, sorry, I didn't tell you. Craig is my asshole co-worker."
"An asshole that drove you home, apparently."
"Kenny, you ignorant slut."
The woman pretended not to be hearing our banter, but she laughed. He went back to help her and I went to go be depressed in my room.
My room is not a bad place to be depressed in, though. There is a small desk facing the window, and a chair with no back so I can kick it under the desk when I'm done. There's a T.V. on the wall, and my bed is a queen size. The walls are lined with wooden shelves of books, notebooks, old textbooks, rocks I've collected from different lakes or parks (in individual jars labeled GRAND LAKE, BOW MAR, GARDEN OF THE GODS, RED ROCK CANYON, etc.), shark teeth, and bird bones. It's a strange set-up, I know. Especially with the bones. It reminds me of a natural history museum I went to several years ago with my little brother. There was a bright room with bodies of moths, butterflies, beetles, frogs, fish - all preserved and pinned into clear boxes for us to see. Drawers of yellowing, clattering bones, and pelts of zebra, giraffe, tiger, elephant - for us to touch. If I was offered to sleep one night in that room, I'd be afraid, in the middle of the night, of a sudden fluttering wing or a prairie dog digging its claws into my eyes.
However, we live above a shop filled with taxidermied animals and they have yet to magically awaken and kill us, so maybe we're okay.
I went to my closet and changed into dry clothes. I've never been into anything besides plain shirts, sometimes band shirts and jeans, because I figure my skin is already a fashion statement and I don't need any more people staring at me than usual.
Black lake stones and shells line my window sill, and I was careful where I placed my hands to open the window. Muggy air filled my room as I watched raindrops slide off tree leaves and roof slats. The buzzing of needles and echoes of the wailing woman rose through the floor. I groaned. Needles I can tolerate because they've been the background noise of my life for years, but the moans bothered me. They reminded me of Bebe.
I thought to reply to her Monday text: "How was the first day?"
I didn't say anything that first night because I was too angry and didn't want to accidentally take it out on her. Now, I was too enveloped by DARK THOUGHTS and couldn't bear the thought of reaching out to her for comfort. Being vulnerable with her in the past never led to anything good.
I opted to lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listen to the rain, twiddle a bird bone in my fingers, and think.
He was like a light switch in between the two days I'd known him. What a strange thing, to be in the fulcrum. The reasoning, I guessed, was understandable. I don't know how I would have reacted if our roles were switched and he was the one high as a kite at the vending machines, then plopped into an extremely expensive lab to help me. I would have been cautious, but I couldn't picture myself being so damn cold.
The next day, complete 180. Like we were old lovers. Oh, stop. Like he looked and saw every insecurity nestled in my eyes. Oh, stop.
I didn't have the balls to ask about his "gay agenda" comment. I wanted to, badly. But when it comes down to it, no matter how curious I was, it wasn't any of my business. If he wanted to bring it up, that was his prerogative. I was curious if he had a boyfriend, though.
I turned over and placed the bird bone on my desk. I wanted to sleep, but I just couldn't keep my eyes closed. Every time I shut them and entered blackness, my heart sped up, the back of my head throbbed, I clenched my jaw, and the screaming woman synchronized with the ambulance sirens in my head. So I kept them open, laying on my side, staring blankly like a gutted fish.
Silence, some laughter, talking, doorbell chiming, then the door closing shut.
Two minutes later, Stan knocked on my door.
"Come in."
He opened the door, face red, dabbing sweat from his forehead with a paper towel like a priest leaving a confession booth with x-rated tales.
"Damn," I rolled back and propped myself on my elbows, "Sounds like you had a juicy time in there. I feel like I should tell Wendy."
"Oh god, don't. You know how jealous she gets."
"Yeah…"
He patted his upper lip. "Hey, uh, Cartman told me you had a pretty rough start this morning. You feeling better?"
I nodded.
"You're sure?"
I nodded again.
"Not sure that I believe you… but you know we're here for you. Don't put up a wall, okay?"
"I know. Thank you."
"Hear anything from Bebe?"
"She asked about work. I haven't said anything yet."
"Hm," he leaned into the door frame. "Kenny's ordering pizza. Want to come down?"
"You're just asking that so I can't be alone to cry."
"You can cry in front of us. Then you can wipe your tears with pizza."
…
Another side effect of DARK THOUGHTS is a constant need to have music or a podcast, something to distract so I don't succumb to the infinite inward thinking, full of life-ending propaganda.
On Wednesday morning, I dug in my closet for a small FM radio shaped like a ladybug (I have no idea how I got it or where it came from). I blew the dust off, tucked it under my arm, and left for the day.
Even with melatonin washed down with grape soda, I didn't sleep well. I hoped that walking under the early morning sun and at least 16 ounces of coffee would wake me up.
When I got there, laptop bag slung over my shoulder, hot coffee (which I forgot to get a stopper for, and now drips of coffee were spilling on my shaking, iron-deficient hand), I saw Craig sitting on a beach outside the building, reading something on his phone. He glanced up, the way a stranger would glance at another stranger passing by, but when he saw it was me, he smiled. Not full teeth - I could already feel he was self-conscious about that.
"You're early," he said.
"So are you. Can I sit?"
"Sure."
I sat by him, making sure I slipped the bag between us. "Thanks again for the ride home yesterday."
"Don't mention it. I owed you."
I popped the lid off my coffee and blew a little.
"Do you want some?" I found myself asking. I never shared my drinks with people. The idea of backwash made me anxious. Then again, everything makes me anxious, so what's one more thing?
"Is that straight black coffee?"
"Yep."
"No, thanks. I've got too much of a sweet tooth. I don't think I could handle it."
"I kind of want to see you try it now. Just to see your face."
"Not happening today, friend."
Friend? Friend? I hardly considered us friends, but okay.
"Another time, then."
"Yeah, on the 31st of Neveruary."
I laughed then sipped. "How come you're so early?"
"Eh, I just woke up early. Then left early, because the longer I looked at how badly my roommate fucked up our kitchen, the madder I got. So I left, got chicken and waffles, now here I am."
I wanted to ask about the roommate, but he seemed guarded about it, so I left it alone. "Oh my god, chicken and waffles are me and my friend's favorite thing to get."
"So fucking good."
"Right?!"
"I just wish I could get it as Waffle House. The closest one is almost two hours away. I had to get it at iHop."
"iHop isn't so bad," I said, imagining Kenny next to me as if I were defending his honor.
"Yeah, but Waffle House is sentimental to me, you know? My mom and I used to go at like two in the morning. She'd get coffee, I'd get blueberry waffles. We'd shoot the shit with the waitstaff. It was warm and the counters were always greasy, but-" he stopped suddenly, looked at me. "Sorry, I'm rambling. About waffles, of all things."
"Sounds like it was more than just about the waffles."
He leaned down, thighs on his elbows, hands on his cheeks. "Yeah."
"I've never been to Waffle House."
"No? You totally should."
"Maybe we could go on a field trip sometime. We'd be like Harold and Kumar. But, you know, instead of White Castle it would be Waffle House."
"That would be cool."
There was a sudden dryness of his "that would be cool" that bothered me. But I guess it was a weird thing for me to suggest, even if it was a joke.
"iHop is okay," he said. "I think the waiters are cracked out sometimes, though."
I tried not to bust. "Oh? What do they do?"
"Well, there's this one guy in particular…"
Oh boy, here it comes.
"I was with a friend and when he was taking our order, he kept going "MMMM" after every item like he could taste it in his mouth as we said it. It was super uncomfortable. I thought he was trying to gussy up our order, like try and convince us it's good, but it's like… we're already there. In the booth. Why bother?"
I almost died. "Did he have blonde hair, kind of short but lanky?"
"I think so?"
"It was probably my son."
Craig jerked sideways, looked me up and down. "Your son?! How old are you?"
"Sorry, sorry," I said in between laughs. "Not really my son. But he's kind of like a little brother, kind of a son to me. I'm 25."
"Oh, I wouldn't have thought."
"He's one of the artists I live with. That's just his second job."
"Okay. Makes sense now… you're 25?"
"Well, I'll be 26 in a couple weeks."
"Really? What day?"
I didn't really want to say. I get weird about my birthday. Well. More like depressed. But I was already knee-deep in this.
"The 26th."
"You'll be 26 on the 26th? Love that for you."
"Yay for getting old."
"26 isn't old. How old do you think I am?"
"I don't know. Everyone in their 20s looks the same to me."
"What if I'm in my 30s?"
"Are you?"
"No."
"Then how old are you?"
"Guess."
"Well, I thought you were older, but you've got me questioning everything now. You're a Master's student, so you have to be at least 22 or 23. Maybe 21."
"You think I'm that young? Wow. I'm 28. This is my second year of my second Master's."
The jealousy again. Mixed with awe. It's a hell of a long time to spend in school, but I wanted it. God, I wanted that life.
"You're probably wondering why I'm 2 and still don't have my Bachelor's-" I started.
He waved me off. "It doesn't matter how long it takes. All that matters is you finish."
"A bit easy for the guy with two Master's to say."
"Oh, stop. I still have to pay all of that off eventually."
I learned throughout the summer that "oh, stop" and "oh, horsefeathers," were just a part of Craig's rotating vernacular, especially when it came to me. Anytime I teased or became testy, it was his endearing way of shutting me up. Sometimes he'd just kiss me.
…
Before work started, I asked Dr. Vince if I could talk to her in the hallway alone. Time to warn her about the fallout.
I caught a glimpse of Craig's face, suspicious, as I closed the door.
"Is everything okay?"
"Yeah," I said, "I just need to talk about a couple of things real quick."
"Did Craig do something? I told him to be nicer to you."
Oh.
The floor tilted. My shoulders sank. It was all fake. He was forced to be nice to me. Boss's orders.
Man up, Kyle. Come on.
Who better than Dr. Vince to understand that my brain chemicals rise and fall as heavy as the pistons in Big Ben? I told her everything. PTSD. I'm a bit whacko. Insane in the membrane. I might cry randomly. I might get snippy, or snappy, or whatever the hell Cartman said. But I'm trying, I'm trying my best and can I please have a radio? I promise to keep it low.
12
