My apathy for life was ever present, my facade succeeding in dissuading those around me, but at times my emotions nosedived; suddenly pretending was impossible.
Everything I'd felt that week, all the emotions I had repressed, hit me full force once I returned home from Shane's house. I didn't stay there long, every minute it got harder and harder to function and I knew what this meant. I knew where it was leading me, and I needed to leave before I shut down completely.
My mother reluctantly picked me up. Shane only lived a few blocks away and yet my mother acted as if she had done the work of a saint. I'm not sure if what she did was beyond what was expected of a parent or not. I thanked her, obviously, what more she wanted from me I wasn't sure.
I soon passed the point of caring. The week had been long and tiresome, my lack of sleep made me feel like a walking corpse and faking everything only drained me more. I wonder if my smiles seemed as forced as they were, or if my input in conversations came across as scripted as it felt. To me my acts of deception seemed painfully obvious and I was sure they appeared as such, but I'd been lying for so long I think I'd perfected the art.
At some point even artists lose their inspiration.
Every call I received on Monday was silenced. Every text left unopened. Every function my body required to exist went ignored.
My mind and my body were enemies, both holding a gun and waiting for the countdown to sound to see who would come out on top.
No matter who won, I was always the victim.
It was Wednesday before I began to function like a human again, though not through choice.
My parents disproved of my 'episodes' and believed I used them as an excuse to miss school. They used to drag me out of bed and force me out of the house. That in itself was a feat, my parents would say words to me that my brain couldn't make sense of and require me to do things I couldn't comprehend.
Going to school like that was hell. I could barely function let alone act like a normal human around my peers. Sometimes I would just feign sickness â I suppose I was sick in some sense â and either get myself sent home, or camp out with the nurse all day.
When I got sent home my parents would always complain about my sense of entitlement and how this was only a product of being coddled and teenage angst, but the disruption to their own lives led to them letting me stay off when it became too hard for me to function.
My absences roused suspicion from my friends and concern from my teachers, but both me and my parents had learnt how to lie. I wonder how long this can go on for before someone's suspicion grows beyond what our lies can dissuade.
After a while my parents began to understand it was best to leave me alone when I was like this. That doesn't mean they had to understand or empathise with me. In their words: I needed to man up and deal with it.
God is testing me and I'm failing.
On Monday and Tuesday, they didn't both me. I stayed in my room, the curtains closed, and my bed cover pulled up in an attempt to escape the world. The growling of my stomach was a reminder that I needed food, but I lacked an appetite. The only reason I moved was to use the toilet. Still, I waited until the liquid painfully pushed against my bladder before reluctantly dragging myself to the bathroom.
We had guest coming over Wednesday night. Even if I did have the effort to argue with my parents over it, I had no choice in the matter. When my mother came home from work and I was still curled up in my bed, seemingly unreceptive to her words, my free will was also taken away.
The curtains canvassing my bedroom in darkness were ripped open and unwelcome light filtered in through the window. My mother's eyes raked through the mess in my room disapprovingly, her fingers holding her nose in a show of distaste and disgust.
"Right," she announced before pulling the covers off my body, removing my shield from the world, "this is enough."
Her touch made my skin crawl. The feel of her hand against my body was unwanted and yet I couldn't form the words to protest as she attempted to pull me out of the bed. My deadweight made it an impossible task and she huffed in annoyance at the overexertion before storming out of the room.
I don't know how long she was gone for, time moved at a rate beyond my comprehension; minutes felt like hours, and yet seconds at the same time. When she returned my father was in tow. Their expressions were mirror images of each other, angry scowls full of annoyance and both directed at me. Still, I didn't have it in me to care; I didn't have it in me to feel anything.
I just watched as they descended upon me, the bringers of my doom, my own harbingers of death.
"We've left you to wallow long enough. We have guest coming and you will be present and presentable."
Her nonsensical tone left no room for argument and not getting up would've have been a reckless act of defiance. My dad provided the muscle this time. There was no fighting back, and no chance of escape. Freedom did not belong to me.
Even with my deadweight, the lack of nutrition in my body and my dad's obvious love for exercise made it easy for him to move me around like a rag doll. I could barely stand on my own two feet, but my lack of compliance was not going to deter either of them.
My clothes were removed without my involvement, my body scrubbed, and hair washed by hands that were not my own. All of it was unwanted, the touches making nausea bubble inside me, but I just stood still and waited.
Once I was deemed clean, I was guided out of the shower, dried, and dressed. I was coming to, the world seeming to shift more into focus, but it still wasn't right.
In some ways I was thankful for the hands helping me, I knew I wasn't in the capacity to care for myself. If only it was done with consent.
By seven pm we were downstairs. My parents finished off the food in the kitchen while I sat silently at the table. I knew I was sat at the table. My parents had walked me down the stairs and placed me in a seat. I knew they were unhappy; I could tell they were saying words, but I had no idea what - I suppose they are ones I was probably glad not to hear.
I knew all this, but it didn't feel like it. I didn't feel like I was in the room. The room didn't even feel real.
The room was a distant place I didn't exist in. The feelings that had overwhelmed me so much that I had shut down were a distant memory, for right now there was nothing.
The colours of the room seemed to shift, the hues changing unnaturally. The sounds around me were distorted, the ticking of the clock was too loud, the whirl of the fan creating a constant static hum.
I was sat in the room; I was on a chair that was one of six around a wooden, rectangular table. This was real. I was real.
Nothing felt real.
It was weird, going from an almost comatosed state to this. In both, I felt nothing, though before I felt only a detachment from the world, now from my own body as well.
My mind came into focus slightly when voices broke through the sound barrier. Three faces entered the room after my mother, all vaguely familiar, but my distance from reality morphed them into something they were not.
I squinted my eyes at the intruders, my solace interrupted and the peace no longer attainable. That was lost as soon as my mother entered my room.
"Caleb," The woman spoke, "it's so lovely to see you again."
I didn't want to say words, I wasn't even sure if my mouth would cooperate, but my mother's unwavering glare directed at me prompted something to escape my lips. What came out felt foreign, my voice almost unrecognisable, but it seemed to sate my mother desires. Laura sent me a smile, so I knew I did something right.
"You remember Joe," Laura gestured to the boy taking the seat beside me, "and this is my husband, Victor." A portly man sat in the seat opposite Joe, a friendly smile on his face that seemed to be the most genuine in the room.
"Lovely to meet you, Caleb."
"You too."
Once the Shields settled down at the table my mother fussed over them, offering drinks and reassuring that food wouldn't be long. My father soon took her place engaging the guests in conversation while she checked on things in the kitchen.
I didn't speak of my own accord, instead only contributing when asked to directly. My mind felt distant, the word still moving in and out of focus, both tangible and intangible at the same time.
My hand moved to grab my fork when the food was brought in, but my limbs felt weighed down and my movements unnatural. Nothing was where it should be. My hands clumsily gripped things and one of the dishes almost slipped out of my grasp completely. Thankfully the guests only saw the humorous side of my actions, my parents on the other hand subtly sent me disapproving looks.
Eventually I managed to get food onto my plate and faintly listened to the words being shared across the table.
Church. Sports. Work. All things I had no desire to pay attention too. Only when it was necessary did I tune in.
When conversation drifted over to me and Joe, talks of school and academics gracing our mothers' lips, that was when I remember my last encounter with the Shields.
Laura's belittling words followed her into the house and Joe's sudden stiffness told me this wasn't an uncommon occurrence.
"You didn't do very well on your last exam, did you dear?" Laura said sweetly, as if sugar coating a rotten apple would make it taste better.
"Joe tried his best, that's all we can hope for. What he gets is irrelevant." Victor chimed in, abruptly ending his conversation with my father to join that of the women. I had a greater appreciation for Victor then, his annoyed expression told me this discussion was not a new one and likely a cause for dispute between the couple.
Victor's reassuring smile directed towards Joe and the soft one offered in return showed that the man stood up for his son when it was brought up.
"I just think he needs to try harder. How can expect to get into a top university and live a good life if he doesn't put his all into his study."
"He doesn't need to get into a top university and have a high paying job to be successful. As long as he's happy, he's won in life."
"Happiness is irrelevant." Laura's tone was so determined, her confidence unwavering that I truly questioned the woman sanity. The expression on Victor's face told me felt the same.
"So, Caleb, do you have any hobbies? Our Joe has been a part of a baseball team since the little leagues. He's great, one of the best on the team."
Hobbies. I can't remember the last time I truly felt interested in something. I used to enjoy reading, but now I can't focus long enough on the words to understand them.
I enjoy physics, but that is something my parents dislike me talking about. I used to be able to talk someone's ear off about quantum mechanics, the contradicting theories on the origins of the universe and different cosmic phenomena. I still could, the knowledge and interest was still there, but only when talking didn't feel so hard. Right now, talking felt like a challenge and I planned to engage in it as less as possible.
I felt bad for Joe, I lacked the ability to offer him support and take him out of the firing line, but words evaded me.
"I don't really have any hobbies." I offered after a moment.
"Caleb likes to help out with the Church." My father inputted. "He's always volunteering at events."
"School is also very important to him. He plans to study to become a doctor." My mother gushed, her words brought a pit to my stomach, nausea returning and my non-existent appetite receding more.
After a few more words, my mother using my academic success as a trophy to lord above Laura's head, and the latter continuing to belittle Joe, I finally decided to start a conversation unprompted.
"So, you play baseball? How's that going? What position do you play?" I said once there was a gap for me to be heard over the continuous chatter.
Joe's eyes quickly glanced in my direction, a thankful smile on his face and a twinkle in his eyes.
"It's really good. I'm the catcher, you know what that is?" When I shook my head â even though I did know what a catcher was â he continued to speak enthusiastically about the position. He told the table, all now listening to him speak, about his team's success and any funny stories from their games.
His dad interjected occasionally, lifting Joe up when he disregarded his own contributions in games. I had picked up on Joe's modesty. He often failed to mention himself when talking about his team's success and the games they had won. It was always because of what someone else had done and when his father chimed in with his own titbits it was obvious Joe was good at what he did.
I don't really remember when I was as enthusiastic as Joe about something. It wasn't a sudden thing, losing my interest in life. It was gradual, a slow fall into nothingness. Things slowly became overwhelming and the world too much until one by one my hobbies dropped off.
I dropped out of my own baseball team. My friendship circle shrunk and only my closet two remained. I stopped attending group outings â Marcus and Shane used to encourage me to join them when our other friends, one's I used to talk to but struggled to anymore, hung out, but they had long since stopped trying. The fear of missing out no longer hovered over me like a shadow. I no longer cared. I stopped everything.
I felt like I was no longer me anymore. I barely felt like a person most of the time. I was going through the motions without even realising. Days felt hazy, time moving unnaturally, my feeling few and far between but those ever present are the ones I wished had left me. Hopelessness, sadness, anxiety, self-hatred. All negative, all consuming.
It wasn't always as bad as it is now. I had moments that were worse, depressive episodes where everything was heightened. That was when the worse thoughts crept in. When death became such a welcome option, a light at the end of dark tunnel I was fumbling down.
The fact I had lasted this long was impressive. When I slipped into a depressive episode all those rational thoughts, those concerns about the impact this would have on my loved ones, would drift away. It was only me, the pain, and the chance for escape.
Yet I was still here. Maybe one day I can escape this tunnel but through a different exit. Maybe one day I can find a way to myself again.
Maybe one day before it's too late.
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A/N:
Another long, long chapter. For reference the last two chapter have been over 2500 words, so yeah, they're hefty reads. Thanks to those who are sticking it out. Feel free to let me know if it's too much. Any other feedback as well is welcome!
What hobbies do people have? Personally, I hate physical activities, more so group sports. People seeing me exercise? No thank you. Give me a book and i'm happy.
Also it's been a while so I've put three chapters out in two days. You probably wont see me for like another week. Inspiration hits when it hits.