This piece is dedicated to all the people who struggle or have ever struggled with mental health, to let them know that they are loved, that their struggles are heard, that they have our support. If you or a loved one is currently undergoing such troubles, please don’t be afraid to seek help. Admitting your vulnerabilities is a sign of strength, not of weakness. The light at the end of the tunnel is only visible when you open the door.
This piece is based on a true story. The real-life inspiration for the main character has since sought psychiatric treatment for his anxiety, and is doing much better. This piece is written with his blessing.
He wants to cry, but he can’t. He wants to shout, but he can’t. Deep breaths feel hollow. Trapped inside the mind, fully aware of the intangible prison he has constructed for himself, but knowledge of these chains doesn’t break them. Hazel eyes darting around, blinking, looking for nothing in particular, he claims. Constant stomach aches. Energetically tired.
Does that make him sound weird?
No.
Does asking about sounding weird sound weird?
No.
Am I sure?
Yes, I tell him every time, not that he’s keeping track anyways.
He almost hit a pedestrian when he stopped at the stop sign. Luckily, he didn’t, because he stopped at the stop sign, with his foot fully on the brake, fully aware of the stop sign he should have stopped at, having had eight hours of sleep, empty bladder, no drugs in his system, never texting at the wheel. Did he mention that his foot pressed fully on the brake? But if he hadn’t seen the stop sign, then would he have hit the pedestrian? But he doesn’t need to worry about that, because he saw the stop sign. But if he didn’t see the stop sign, then he would need to worry about that. But he saw the stop sign.
His toe taps as he tells this story for the fourth time this week. To me or himself, I don’t know. But I always listen.
His mom doesn’t know. His dad doesn’t know. His teachers don’t know. His friends don’t know. How could they? He smiles, he laughs, he makes math jokes with that resonant voice of his. Happy kid, they call him. Anxiously happy more accurately describes him.
I hesitate, then ask: Does he need help?
No, he always says. Only crazy people see psychiatrists.
He rises from his seat and walks away, but doesn’t leave the room. He paces in circles, intent on stepping over the same line of grout each time, glancing at his car, rubbing his New York State Class DJ License lengthwise with his thumb, as if to reassure himself.