Angst

by Victoria Sawyer

  “Why do you feel ugly! Victoria, honestly, how can you feel that way? Why? I can’t understand it. You’re beautiful. You’re making me really sad right now.”

  “I’ve always felt ugly, ever since I was a little girl, I’ve felt self-conscious and unattractive. I was teased, so I guess that has something to do with it. I had glasses, braces, bad skin, none of that helped make me feel like everyone else. Plus I had this inner stigma, this inner stain that made me different. I have a hard time looking in the mirror and seeing what is really there or what everyone else sees,” I pause for a second, unable to stop my mouth, unable to stop running away with words. “Actually, with most of the guys I’ve dated I’ve felt like I…I wasn’t good enough for them or good looking enough. I guess self-confidence has something to do with it too. It’s hard to convince someone that you are attractive when you don’t think so yourself. I really can’t…explain any of it, Jared, it’s just the way I feel. It’s me, screwy, damaged me.” I take a breath, barely able to continue through the tears, the sobs that are taking my breath away. I gasp in a breath and then continue on.

  “Babe, how can I live this way? How can I expect love from someone…when I can’t love myself, when I hate my life and can’t control my thoughts and emotions? I’m wicked depressed. Everything is wrong, everything is bad. Everything is so bad that honestly the idea of death is appealing because it’s a kind of release, a kind of peace and quiet from my life. It’s like sleeping. I like sleeping because I can get away from myself for a little w-while. What I don’t understand…is h-how whenever I wake up in the morning, I am always…me. Same old, fucked up, piece of shit, annoy...ing, predictable, emotional, over-reacting m-me. I’m fucking SICK OF IT!! I want…to be someone else or I want to…d-die.” I’m sobbing harder now, barely able to pull a breath into my lungs, rushing through my words. I feel out of control, crazy and emotional. I grip the phone tightly, tears streaming over my face, my eyes blurring, my head aching. I can’t believe I am letting him see this crazy fucked up side of me. It’s embarrassing, but I can’t seem to stop the train wreck.

  “Babe, I don’t know what to say to you. I want to help you, but this stuff is all in your head and it’s not true. You are normal. Every worry you have is normal, you just take it to another level. And I don’t like to hear you talk about death like that. Promise me you will never kill yourself. Promise me, right now, damn it. You mean a lot to me, please, please, please don’t talk this way. You have so many reasons to live, you are special. You are beautiful, creative, smart, funny, caring, compassionate, and affectionate. There are so many things I love about you. Please don’t talk about suicide.”

  “I don’t know…w-wha-what to say to you. Death sounds… appealing, fucking…k-kind. My entire life is tinged with panic, not even tinged, completely overwhelmed, e-engulfed by it. Everything…is all in my head. Everything would be o-okay if I didn’t have to live in here with m-myself. I don’t think there is anything else…I can do. I feel like I’m at the end of what I can deal with on a daily basis. What other option do I have now to stop this? I can live in fear…stay home, alienate all my friends, you, my family, everyone important to me, or I can… kk-kill myself. I am helpless, hopeless. My only option is to get on med-i-cation. I hate…that option. Everything is hateful. I just want to sob and sob and sob and beat myself up and curl up in a ball and dis-a…disappear. I swear God hates…me and wants me to be miserable. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I’m cursed like this.”

  “Victoria, don’t fuck with me! Swear to me right now that you will not kill yourself! You are NOT fucked in the head. You might over-exaggerate, but your fears are normal ones. Everyone feels that way at some point. Do NOT talk about killing yourself, Victoria!” he yells into the phone and I can tell he’s freaking out. Jesus Christ, fine. I’ll lie to him. Tell him what he wants to hear so he’ll leave me alone and not come driving over to my parents’ house in a crazy frantic rush to stop me from pulling the trigger. I’m really good at lying. Wow. But I don’t want any drama. This is personal. This is my choice and no one can interfere.

  “Oh God, Jared, I can’t really…k-kill myself. Honestly. I can’t do it. I can think about it, dream about it, but I can’t do it. It’s too s-scary, too serious.”

  “Victoria, you’d better be telling me the truth. I’m coming over to your parents’ house, right now. Don’t do anything until I get there,” he says.

  “Fine,” I say and hang up the phone. It rings again within moments but I don’t answer and I can tell that I’ve caused drama anyway and now he’s rushing over. He doesn’t believe me.

  #######################

  After our conversation I continue to lie on the floor, depression sliding over me, heavy and real, tears seeping from between my closed eye lids. What am I going to do? How can I continue like this? I have to stop drinking all the time, I have to stop living in fear. I’ve just admitted everything to Jared, my mouth running away with itself, exposing my inner crazy. How humiliating it is to think of now, how utterly despicable, I’m even more hated now, more despised. Can I really leave that hot crazy mess as his last thoughts of me?

  Now it’s suddenly clear to me that I’m on a time line right now. Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes to make up my mind. Ten to ponder, five to take action, leaving me some wiggle room.

  It’s as if I have to finally come to terms with what is happening to me, finally admit that it’s bigger than me. The problem is that there’s no happy ending. There is no admitting anything joyfully or finally feeling free. This is me, beaten down, held prisoner by my mental defect, about to drown under its weight as it holds me thrashing under water. What is left for me? I have to ask some hard questions. I have to decide what’s important to me. Life or death. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to gain some warmth, reaching up to dash away my hot tears.

  What are the questions? Do I want to live? Can I possibly be normal? Do I want to have a boyfriend and friends and be able to live a normal life? Or do I want to stop suffering completely, but at the same time end my own life?

  How can I continue to let it hold me down like this? If there’s an answer, shouldn’t I try to find it? Is the answer to end everything, all my hopes and dreams, my very existence or is there some other way? Would getting outside help be admitting failure or would it be reaching out toward hope?

  I try to imagine my future, but all I can see is the panic. It’s engulfed me now completely. Victoria no longer exists, only the monster, the fear, has hold now. The idea of embarrassing myself, of my entire life being a game to try to keep myself safe makes me feel sick. Fuck this. Fuck everything. I don’t want to live this way anymore. I don’t want to admit to someone that I have a problem. I don’t want to take a pill every day. I don’t want to risk a DUI by drinking and driving since it’s the only way I can leave the house. I want to end my suffering, immediately. Now. I want to end my all-consuming self-hate. I want to stop feeling the way I do physically. I’m done.

  The shiny gun glints again in the light and I thank my father for keeping a loaded gun in a gun case in his room, which I just happen to know how to unlock. Smart girl, at least I’m good for something. And thanks to Dad for taking me shooting as a child. I pull the gun even closer until it’s a blurry silver and black object lying next to my head. God I don’t want to do this…but I feel like I have to. I touch the cold metal and imagine the blackness, the soothing quiet, the calm. I want it. No more messy life, no more time skipping by faster and faster, no more peer pressure, no more obligations, no more misery, no more alcohol. No more body. Freedom. I want it. I lift the heavy gun, hand on the trigger. It’s hard to end your own life, the trigger feels resistant, like it doesn’t want to be pulled. I guess you come in to this life hard and you leave hard too. I set the gun back down and scooch the barrel up near my head, cold metal against my hot skin, like a cold kiss. One pull. Blackness. Like a mother’s arms. Comfort.

  How funny it is to think that I came into thi
s panic life in a blast of blinding white light from the shuttle lift off and I’m about to go out the same way.

  Just as I finger the resistant trigger again, pointer finger against springy metal, my thoughts race on. What about the good stuff? What about the potential life I might have? Thoughts fly through me, my future, thoughts of Jared, friends, my mom and dad, family. My future. It’s mine. It’s mine and I am going to throw it away. I imagine myself getting married, landing my first job, having a baby, growing old, experiences that I will never have if I pull this trigger. My existence would have consisted of just this, this misery, these tears, this problem, never a chance for things to get better, never a chance for real happiness, never a chance to grow wiser and smarter. Life is hard. Life is shit, but it’s my life. My choice. Things can’t get worse, but they could get better? I know my life will always be tinged with panic, I am certain of that, but isn’t this letting it win? Isn’t this the worst thing I can do, to let the panic force me to end my own life? I can’t let it win this way, can I? Tears course faster, I’m gulping for air now. I don’t want to die. I don’t. I hate this. This is my life, my one chance. MINE!!!

  I push the gun away in disgust. Shit…I can’t do it! I can’t. I want to live. I’ve never wanted anything more. I will do whatever it takes to make my impression on this world more than some scared as shit girl who took the easy way out. I will fight it. I must. I can’t let it win. Hasn’t that always been my motto, to be stronger than the monster, the fear, to never ever let it win? It might be horrible, it might be holding me prisoner, but how can I let it convince me to kill myself?! How can I give it that kind of power over me? My life right now sucks, that is true, but haven’t I had some good times in the past? Couldn’t I look forward to some good times in the future?

  My thoughts skitter on, relief washing over me. I can’t kill myself. Deep down I knew I couldn’t do it. What can I do? What about the medication? Is that my answer? I still don’t like it, but it’s beginning to look like more of a savior. I want Jared. I want my friends and family. I want to feel happy and good again. I want to be able to leave the house without feeling sick, without being terrified of every situation. If it takes seeing my doctor, admitting what’s going on and asking to be put on a medication, than maybe that is what I should to do. There is no other option. I’m in crisis.

  Would getting on medication be a form of fighting back against the demons? I’m beginning to convince myself it could be. I don’t want to continue thinking that I’m admitting failure. Wanting life, using whatever means necessary to feel normal, can’t be a failure, can it?

  Sometimes in life you have to ask for help, right? Sometimes things are so bad that there is no other option? I’m willing to admit that I’m at that point and I’m too angry about missing out on life to let it hurt me anymore. I’ve always seen medication as the fool’s way out, the easy way out for people with no spine. But my life is more important to me right now than some kind of psychological mind game. Medication is available and I’m a fool not to take advantage.

  Hasn’t Jared just proven to me how amazing he is? He stands by me. He listens to my ravings and he tries to reason with me, so do my parents, my baby brother, everyone who really knows me and loves me. They want me to be better, but they are also willing to deal with my shit. I need them, I want them and in order to make me happy, to regrasp life, medication is necessary. It doesn’t have to be forever. It just has to get me through this rough time. My decision is made, I’m going to do it. I will get on medication so I can start living again.

  I sit up quickly, leaving the cold floor behind, determined to see this thing through. I wipe away my final tears and struggle to my feet from the floor, rubbing life back into my cold arms. I will set up the appointment and my anxiety can fuck itself.

  Back upstairs I open the front door and stare through the glass, eyes squinting at the bright light. The world is very green, vibrant. This is what life looks like. Sparkling, bright, real, beautiful. I step outside into the sunshine and feel it warm my face, as a soft breeze caresses me. I just stand there, face up, letting the warmth sink into my cold body and his car comes careening up the driveway and skids to a halt at the end of the walkway. He’s out of the car in an instant, up the path and I’m in his arms and he’s kissing my face. Kissing my red, tear stained face. I am alive. I choose life.

  June 27, 2005

  Let me hold all your worries

  A week later as I leave a stressful day at work, finally walking out the door and into the warm June air, I notice that I have a message on my phone. It’s Jared, telling me that he’d like to see me after work, inviting me to stop by his apartment. I feel my stomach tense up. I have to go. Jared wants to see me and there is nothing I would like better, except I’m feeling panicked by the mere idea of even driving to his house and getting out of the car. Work was a long day today, the panic still aggressive, since my medication hasn’t started working yet, so I’m pretty on edge. But I’m gonna try to go, I have to at least try to overcome this thing.

  Once in my car, I start hyper focusing on panic, on “what if” scenarios where I embarrass myself completely. Don’t do this to me! I pinch my thigh with my nails. Don’t start this. The trip is only 15 minutes. But it feels like every mile I drive is injecting more and more fear into my body and mind, like the drip of a catheter. But instead of helping, it’s killing me, causing me to focus inside, my mind swarming over every negative, out of control feeling, every sickness, every quiver and shake, every shudder. I can’t breathe.

  Trees, buildings, traffic lights and signs all pass me in a blur, my hands automatically turning the wheel at the appropriate times. I try to calm myself, taking deep breaths, trying to relax my tired muscles, trying to climb back out of my thoughts. Just a few more minutes and then maybe I can distract myself with Jared.

  I’m suddenly gripped with an all-consuming fear, dread of the unknown, my imagination flying, creating situations where I’m unable to leave immediately. What if there are people at Jared’s, friends with questions, wondering where I’ve been, or others who might witness my breakdown? I can’t do it. I can’t go. But my car drives on, my insides twisting and turning, strangling my breath. The moment of intense panic is always terrible, inner focused, extreme. I feel like I’m being smothered and my insides ripped apart by knives.

  I try to focus on Jared. I haven’t seen him since he drove to my parents’ house over a week ago, and hopefully in a few more days’ time I will begin to feel the effects of the drug in my system, calming me, perhaps finally giving me the peace I’ve sought for so long. I begin to tear up, oh God how I wish I were free of this problem. It’s hard to stay strong, to wait for the medication when I’m feeling this way. I want instant gratification or I want death. But death is something I only think of, or say, an idea of some kind of peace, not a reality that I will actually pursue, but somehow I have to feel like there is a way out. Just a few more days, just give it time to start working. The doctor had said it might get worse at first and she had been right. I’m depressed beyond anything I’ve ever known. The idea of death is even more appealing now.

  Finally I pull into his driveway. No one is outside, although there are several cars in the parking lot. Suddenly my knees feel weak as I open the door and try to stand and get out of the car. I’m zeroed in on my thoughts. I can’t do this. I can’t go in there. Something bad will happen, already my stomach is roiling. Maybe I should drive away, maybe I should leave before anyone notices that I’m here. I sit back down in the car and put it into reverse, about to pull away. No, I can’t do it. I can’t leave, I want to see Jared, I want to be normal. My hands are shaking in my lap and my foot on the pedal feels like mush. There is no power left in my body. No strength. I’m like a jellyfish, without a backbone, without the guts to go on. How fuckin pathetic, I think, about to get angry. But I feel too tired to get angry as I put the car back into park and cradle my head in my hands, tears starting. This is bad.


  There’s a knock at my window. Jared. He looks concerned when he sees my face and I reluctantly push the door open for him. Now he knows I’m here, it would be weird to try and leave. At this thought, I feel the panic slap me, my entire body feeling all the sensations now. Stomach twisted, turning, pulse flying, body jittery and yet uptight at the same time, mind flying between every fucked up fear and I’m overheated, dizzy, over the top. I want to push Jared away, slam the door, drive away, get home to safety, but I don’t do anything. I just sit there for a moment, living inside the feelings of fear and then Jared kneels down between the open door and my car and looks up at me.

  “Are you okay? What can I do for you?” he asks, looking like he’s going to cry, looking like he’s as upset as I am.

  “Nothing,” I reply, “there is nothing you can do.” Tears start to pour down my face at the finality of these words. No one can help me. It’s me and me alone. Yet again I am crying, yet again I am weak. Now Jared will want to leave me. It’s a miracle he hasn’t already.

  “Let me help you,” he says, grabbing my hand, pulling me up out of the car and into his arms. My legs feel rubbery and unsteady and his arms and body feel strong to me, strong and right. “I haven’t really seen you in weeks Victoria. I miss you. I want to help you. I don’t want you to be afraid to come see me,” he says, looking into my eyes, sincere, wonderful. I look down and away, not wanting him to see my tear stained face or the emotion that is plainly there for anyone to see.

  “I can’t help it. I’m afraid of everything. No one can help me,” I say as I try to pull away. But he holds me tightly, holding me upright in his arms. “Maybe my medication will finally help me. Otherwise I can’t ask you to stay with me. I’m a nutcase, a freak,” I say coldly, choking on my tears, unable to draw air into my gasping lungs. I can’t believe I’m making a scene again with Jared. God he must think I’m a fucking idiot.