by Carnal, MJ
***
Depression is a cruel bitch. She starts by planting little seeds all over your mind, knowing that life’s troubles will water it daily until it grows into a massive bonsai tree that crowds your thoughts and feelings, not leaving any room for leaves of hope to spur from it. Those are my thoughts as I lay in bed. I’ve lost count of how many days I’ve been in here, faking headaches and period pains so that my brother doesn’t try to drag me out.
Turning to lay on my stomach, I swivel the volume tuner on my iPod so that I can get lost in music. The more melancholy I feel, the more depressing I want my music to be, so I’ve been listening to what my brother so aptly calls, my suicide playlist. Clearly, the no filter thing runs deep in my family. Nonetheless, it’s a fact of life—when you’re sad, you listen to sad music; when you’re happy, you listen to party music. I wish I could stop. I wish I could press pause and put away the iPod, but I can’t.
I see my door open, mainly because there’s light in the room now, but I don’t look up to acknowledge it. I just see my brother’s shiny black shoes and Nina’s equally as shiny black patent pumps before my earphones get tugged out of my ears.
“What the hell?” I mutter, sitting up on the bed.
“You’re acting like a fucking bear,” Nina scolds, pushing the button to open the drapes.
“Bee, you need to get out of this funk,” Hendrix agrees. “Are you taking your antidepressants?”
My eyes begin to water as my lower lip trembles. “I don’t want to.”
I really don’t. I don’t want to take any kind of drugs, not even ones I’m prescribed. I’m scared that I’ll try to drown in them if I take one. It’s easy to take two and then three and then drink. And I’m scared that I’ll fall back into something I can’t get out of. My sponsor says I’ll be fine. She asks me to call her every day to update her on my progress, which I do even though there is none. I spoke to Allie’s husband on the phone when I called her the other day and he screamed his head off at me. I still haven’t had any communication with her and it’s killing me. I know I shouldn’t call her, but I hate that we haven’t spoken. I hate just leaving our friendship hanging like that even if she did try to screw me over.
Apparently I’m that girl, the one that needs closure. The one that’s unwilling to accept that sometimes people in your life vanish into thin air.
Nina sits down beside me and pulls me close to her, laying my head on her shoulder. “Okay, no drugs. What else can we do to help you?”
“Get me a new heart,” I murmur.
“Oh my God,” Hendrix says. “Stop being so melodramatic. You knew the guy for what? Two months?”
“I knew him long enough for him to make himself my life,” I say quietly as new tears start.
Nina rolls her eyes and shakes her head, looking at me like I’m a pathetic excuse for a woman. I swear if she starts spewing her women power bullshit right now, I will kick her.
“So fucking call him,” Hendrix says. “If you feel this way, fucking call him or pick up the goddamn phone when he calls you! Why are women so fucking complicated?”
“Listen,” Nina starts with an attitude, letting go of me and standing up to place her hands on her hips. “Men are fucking stupid. That’s why they think women are complicated. Women want three things. Three simple things: Keep your dick in your pants. Be honest with us. Worship us. That’s it. That’s all. You motherfuckers can’t do all three without getting your brain mixed up. She cannot call him because she is the woman and he should be groveling at her feet and kissing them while he’s down there. Fuck him. Fuck you. Fuck all men. I’m taking an oath right now and writing all men off.”
Hendrix starts laughing, throwing his head back and clutching on to his stomach. “Oh, that’ll be the day, Nina. That’ll be the day,” he says, laughing.
“Go home to your ex-wife, you miserable, childish little man,” Nina says, pivoting back to me while Hendrix laughs.
“She’s not my ex-wife. We’re still married,” he says.
“By the grace of God,” she mumbles, sitting beside me again.
“Look, the point is that if she’s this miserable she needs to call him,” Hendrix says.
“You’re not bothered that he’s been working on this Wildfire Label all along?” I ask.
Hendrix crouches down in front of me, looking at me with seriousness in his caramel eyes. “Bee, do you know how Dad started Harmon?”
I shake my head. I’ve heard a million stories of how, but I wouldn’t know which one is true: the one where my dad fought off the bear that was around old records or the one where he started selling CDs out of his trunk.
“He was an intern for Donny, you know, from Mojo Records, and he started taking clients. Anybody that wanted to sign that Dad really liked, he spoke to on the side. That’s how Harmon came to be. This is a shark business, Bee. If you’re not ready to bite, you’re gonna get eaten. You know this. So no, I’m not mad at Wilde. He has the right to do whatever he wants, and you know what? He’s beating his dad at his own game. I respect him,” Hen says with a shrug.
“His dad is an asshole,” I mutter.
“Bigger than ours,” Hendrix agrees, making me smile.
“Damn. I gotta meet this man,” Nina says, making Hendrix and I shoot a warning glance her way. She puts her hands up in defense. “Just to see if he’s really a bigger asshole than Uncle Chris! Geez … oh ye of little faith and shit.”
I laugh despite myself and bump her with my shoulder.
“Seriously, Brooklyn, it’s been a week already, you need to get your shit together. You have other things going on,” Hendrix reminds me.
One week. That’s how long it’s been. One week since I last saw him. One miserable week and I’m still not over him, not that I thought I would be. It’s amazing how you can live without somebody your entire life and then you meet them, let them in, let them take over your every thought, and then the moment they’re gone, you feel like you’re fucking dying. My shoulders and head drop at the thought of it all. Just when things seemed to be going in the right direction for me, my comfortable rug gets pulled from beneath me. Nick called me the first couple of days and then stopped, I don’t know if it was to give me space or because he finally decided to quit on me. I expected the latter to happen at some point, but I didn’t know it would hurt this bad. I didn’t know it would feel this painful.
“Do you have a dress for Saturday?” Nina asks, bumping me back with her shoulder.
I shake my head, not caring if I even go to that stupid party. Nothing good has ever come out of those damn White Parties anyway.
“Shea will be there,” Hendrix says. “Maybe Nick will go.”
“Yeah, with a date, I’m sure,” I scoff, the thought making my stomach turn.
I get out of bed and shower, not because I feel like I have the energy to do it, but because my cousin and brother will kill me if I don’t. Hendrix places a cup of coffee in my hand as Nina drags me out of the house, insisting that we go dress shopping. The White Party went from “dress in all white” to “tux and gown mandatory” throughout the years. My mother got sick of rockers showing up in jeans and a white T-shirt claiming that they were properly dressed for the party. Being that she was the only one in a custom floor-length dress, she changed the rules. My father laughed and argued that it would no longer be a white party if they changed the wardrobe, but he went along with it anyway.
After browsing a couple of stores, we end up in Oscar de la Renta on Madison Avenue, which is where I suggested we go to begin with, but Nina always has to get her way and fail before she goes along with anybody else’s idea.
“What if I wear a short dress?” I ask, holding up a sleeveless black dress with a boat neck and a full skirt. It’s not short, it would probably fall where my knees end, but it’s not floor-length like my mother wants it to be either.
Nina scrunches her faces. “That looks like an old lady dress, Bee.”
I purse my lips, examini
ng the dress, which now that she points it out, does kind of look like an old lady dress with the red flowers on it. “I don’t really want to wear a gown though.”
Nina takes the dress out of my hand and puts it back on the hanger before thanking the employee and pulling me out of the store, informing me that we’re going to Barney’s.
“I’ll never hear the end of it if I end up wearing the same dress as somebody else,” I groan as I browse the racks of long gowns there.
Nina agrees and we move on to Neiman Marcus. As we’re getting to the designer dresses, I spot a one shoulder beaded bodice ball gown that makes my heart skip a beat. Because this is the first time I’ve even felt my heart beat in a week, I decide that’s the dress I want. I try the Naeem Khan gown on and fall in love all over again.
“This is it,” I breathe, swiveling in front of the mirror.
Nina nods in approval. “That is beautiful,” she says, walking up to me and looking at the price tag. She shrugs. “Could be worse.”
I laugh, looking at it and agreeing that it could be. Price aside, the dress is couture enough that I know most of the invitees won’t wear it. I like to push the envelope when I dress for events like these. I never go for the plain dresses unless they have a classic look, like the de la Renta one I’d seen. Nina tries on a strapless floor length Monique Lhuillier gown with a whirlwind of green hues and a slit that shows off her thin long leg. As soon as she steps out of it, I grab it from her and start walking to the register, as she gets dressed.
“Don’t try anything else on,” I say over my shoulder. “You’re wearing this.”
She laughs but doesn’t argue. We both decide on gold shoes: Nina’s a peep toe Prada, I’m a strappy Jimmy Choo, and then we head over to Hell’s Kitchen to eat with Uncle Rob and his husband Vic.
We leave everything in the car. Nina tells Marcus, the driver, not once, but twice, that he better be careful with our purchases. He laughs as if it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard, but Nina is dead serious about her request. We got to a tiny little café called The Eatery.
Uncle Rob and Vic greet us and pull up chairs for us before ordering each of us a mimosa.
“I love coming here,” Nina sings as she lets out a happy breath.
“Yeah, it’s cute,” I agree, tilting my head to look at the rainbow painted American Flag across the street.
“Have you noticed how many gays are hot as fuck?” Nina asks suddenly, blatantly checking out the gay couple walking by us.
My jaw drops, but I laugh when Uncle Rob and Vic start laughing.
“The things that come out of your mouth,” Uncle Rob says, shaking his head.
“Seriously,” I agree, looking at my menu.
“Whatever,” Nina continues. “I work with a lot of them, but it seems like the really hot ones are out here. I mean, look at him,” she says, pointing at a strong blond guy walking an English Bulldog.
“You do realize that he can hear you, right?” I ask, gripping the finger she’s pointing. “And it’s rude to point.”
“I don’t think he would think it’s rude that I’m saying he’s hot,” she counters, glancing at her menu.
Vic laughs. “No, probably not. When’s your next play?”
“I start one in two weeks. It’s going to be huge, I just know it,” Nina says, beaming.
I love watching her talk about her plays. She gets so excited about every single one of them. Even if she doesn’t play a major role, she treats it like she’s the main character. I love that about her.
My uncle places his hand on mine while Nina talks to Vic about her play. I look up and find his hazel eyes looking at me with concern. “You okay?”
I nod slightly and offer him a small smile. “I’m getting there.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Have you gone to the therapist I sent you to?”
My shoulders slump and I shake my head. “No, not yet,” I whisper.
“You know you don’t have to wait until the last minute to seek help, right? You don’t have to wait until you’re drowning in your sorrows to go talk to somebody,” he says, his voice quiet as he rubs my hand.
“I know,” I agree. “I just … it’s always the same thing, you know? I go and I tell them my whole life story and I feel stupid. I feel stupid for needing help. I feel stupid for feeling depressed. I’m crying out and feeling sad and here I am, sitting in a café in the middle of the day after I just spent twelve thousand dollars on clothes without a second thought. It just makes me feel petty. There are people starving, kids that need water, and here I am … feeling depressed over what? A friend that sued me, a guy that let me walk away from him, that may have tried to use me, a best friend that’s always on tour and has issues of his own, a best friend that died because my interest in drugs led him to get stuck in it?” My throat closes in on me, not letting me continue my rant and I blink away tears, running the tips of my fingers under my eyes just in case.
My uncle stands up in the crowded space and rounds the table, crouching down beside me and pulling me into a hug. “Depression has no reason, Brooklyn. It’ll eat at you, showing no remorse, because it can. You don’t have to let it. You can own the universe and still feel this way.”
I know he’s right, but just like depression has no reason, it also doesn’t allow you to reason things.
“If I can’t get myself out of it, I’ll go see your lady,” I promise, and I will.
He smiles and kisses the top of my head before returning to his seat. Our meal is filled with laughs and funny stories from both Nina and Vic, who can entertain a stand-up comedy audience with their obscene jokes. As we head back home, my heart begins to cry again. As great as it is to get out, it still doesn’t erase what I feel when I go back home and am alone with my thoughts. I get my bags out of the car and kiss my cousin goodbye and when I get upstairs, I decide to FaceTime with Melody and Sarah. Sometimes the only thing that can truly cheer you up is the sound of a child’s laughter, and Melody’s giggles never let me down. I choose to listen to her tell me stories about what her day was like and what she’s going to be for Halloween. Instead of suffocating myself in darkness, I choose light. For once.
***
I yawn, feeling exhausted from lack of sleep. Nick called me last night while I was in the shower. By the time I saw the missed call, it was too late to call back. The feeling of needing to see him has become unbearable. My phone vibrates beside me on the nightstand and I reach over, turning on the bed to look at the screen. My stomach does this crazy flip when I see his text message pop up on my screen.
Nick: I miss you
Ignite butterflies.
Me: Stop saying that
I hate that his words, written or voiced, have a direct line to the blood that flows to my heart, but more than anything I hate that I want to hear them so bad. I’ve spoken to Shea a couple of times for about a second each time. He says they’ve been working their asses off on the album and rarely have time to even eat, which makes me secretly happy because that means they don’t have time to screw around either.
Nick: I can’t help it.
I clutch my phone harder, but don’t respond. What would I say? I’ve been spending so much time alone with my thoughts, that just as I made it to the point where I convinced myself he wasn’t using me for his label, I backtrack and decide he may have been. I have to give myself a couple of days to clear my head completely so that I can talk to him in person. A couple days of no lawsuit drama, no heartache, and no pain relief, which is beginning to sound more and more like a vacation. After a moment, my phone chimes again.
Nick: I want you
Holy. Shit. I stare at the message for one second, two seconds, three seconds, four … all while my heart sputters in my chest. How is it that he makes me feel like I can’t breathe even when he’s far away from me? It’s only a text message, but I can hear his raspy voice saying that into my ear and it makes my skin break out in goose bumps.
Me: Stop
Nic
k: I can’t
My insides are no longer mine; they belong to the butterflies and every other creature with wings that are currently fluttering inside. When he doesn’t text again, a tiny part of me is relieved, the bigger part of me wants to scream at the phone for him to send another, even though I don’t want to respond again. Maybe I should just call him. Maybe I should just wait. I wrestle with the idea for a moment longer before I do what any normal woman with a beating heart does: I call Nina.
“Do not text him back again. And definitely no calling,” she says firmly. “Make him sweat it out, that asshat.”
I nod once, making up my mind to do just that. “Good. I needed to hear that.”
When I hang up with her, I decide to go to a Pilates class that I’d signed up for eons ago and never went to. The rest of my day is spent pampering myself. I think whenever I get down on myself like that, this is what I need to do—make myself leave the house and pamper myself. It’s easier said than done, obviously, but since this is the first time I’m actually doing it, I feel proud of myself. That night, Hendrix walks in with a box of pizza, completely fucking up the “I’m going to start leading a healthy lifestyle” mentality I practiced throughout the day.
“Bastard,” I say to him as he puts down the box and greets me with a kiss.
He laughs. “What? Just because you did Pilates today you’re a changed woman?”
“No,” I grumble, my stomach growling. “Hey, you wanna go with me to get a tattoo?”
“Another one?” he asks, pulling out disposable plates and napkins.
“You act like I’m a tatted up shrine,” I say, taking a bite of pizza.
He makes an annoyed face. “What will you get?”
“Breathe,” I state simply.
He scratches his head and tilts his head at me. “Breathe? The word? Where?”
