Suicide Notes

by Michael Thomas Ford

“Other patients?” I said. “What other patients?” “Other young people,” Cat Poop told me. “You’ll meet some of them tomorrow.” “Why?” I asked. “Are we having a sing-along?” “If you want to,” he said. “But usually the patients just sit in a circle and look at each other until someone decides to talk.” “I don’t have anything to talk about,” I informed him. “Then you have forty-three days of staring to look forward to,”

“Alice, why don’t you tell Jeff a little bit about yourself.” “My name is Alice,” said the girl. Duh.

“Welcome to Camp Meds,” she said. “Where the campers are crazy and the counselors want you to take drugs.” “Yeah, well, this camper isn’t sticking around long,” I told her, crumpling up my schedule. “How’s that?” she said. “You have a plan or something?” “Sure,” I said, throwing the ball of paper into a trash can. “And it’s really simple—I’m not crazy.” Sadie laughed again. “Right,” she said. “None of us are.” “I’m serious,” I said. “So am I,” she told me. “You think I’m nuts?” “You’re here, aren’t you?” She nodded. “And so are you. You think you’re the only mistake they’ve made?”

I talked about everyone else in the group and how weird they were. This was after our second group session, in which I learned that Alice chews her hair, Juliet still loves Bone, and Bone still loves his shoes. Very deep stuff.

“Are you a real doctor?” I asked him. “I mean, with a diploma and everything?” “I’m a psychiatrist,” he said. “So you’re not really a doctor,” I said. “A psychiatrist is also a medical doctor,” he told me. “A psychologist isn’t.” “So what you’re saying is that you think you’re better than a psychologist,” I said. “That’s not very nice. I mean, I bet they worked hard too.” “They’re two very different things,” he said.

“It feels like there are twenty-three people living in my head,” I told her. “Only twenty-three?” Sadie said. “Lucky you.”

I’ve been thinking about Sadie, though, and how she maybe tried to drown herself. And here’s what I’m wondering: How come someone always saves the people who try to kill themselves and then makes them tell everyone how sorry they are for ruining their evenings? I keep feeling like everyone wants me to apologize for something. But I’m not going to. I don’t have anything to apologize for. They’re the ones who screwed everything up. Not me. I didn’t ask to be saved.

“Do you think I’m stupid, Jeff?” I shook my head. “No,” I said. “You can’t be stupid. You went to school in Canada. I hear they have a way better education system than we do. Why, do you feel stupid?”

“How do you really know if anyone loves you?” When I didn’t answer, she looked at me. “Really, how do you know?” I thought about it for a minute. “I guess you just assume they do until they tell you they don’t,” I said. Sadie shook her head. “You need a better system than that.” “Maybe you ask,” I suggested. “If you have to ask, the answer is probably no. Do you think your parents love you?” I nodded. “Yeah,” I answered. “I do. They may be a little whacked, but they love me.” “Do they tell you they do?” “Sometimes,” I said. “My mom more than my dad, but I think that’s usually how it goes.” Sadie looked at me for a long time. “You’re lucky,” she said finally. I’ve been thinking about that ever since. Am I lucky? Am I lucky that I didn’t die? Am I lucky that, compared to the other kids here, my life doesn’t seem so bad? Maybe I am, but I have to say, I don’t feel lucky. For one thing, I’m stuck in this pit. And just because your life isn’t as awful as someone else’s, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck. You can’t compare how you feel to the way other people feel. It just doesn’t work. What might look like the perfect life—or even an okay life—to you might not be so okay for the person living it.

Is there anything I’d like to say to them? I thought. Yeah, there was. Why didn’t you just let me die?, for starters. Why’d you have to come home early from your stupid party? Why’d you have to put me in this place with a bunch of whack-jobs?

I keep thinking about how she tried to kill herself. That sounds so weird: “kill yourself.” It makes it sound like you tried to murder someone, only that someone is you. But killing someone is wrong, and I don’t think suicide is. It’s my life, right? I should be able to end it if I want to. I don’t think it’s a sin.

Why is it okay to put someone to death, but it’s not okay for those people to do it themselves? I’ll tell you what I think. I think it pisses people off when you kill yourself because it takes away their chance to control your life, even a little bit. They don’t like it when you end things the way you want to and don’t wait for the way it’s “supposed” to happen. What if suicide is the way it’s supposed to happen? Do they ever think of that?

“Want to play cards?” “Do we have to talk about how we feel?” “Hell no,” said Sadie. “In fact, if you say one word about what’s going on in there, I’m finding another poker buddy.” That’s what I need more of: people who just leave me alone.

“I don’t know if I’m sorry or not,” Sadie said. “If I hadn’t tried, I’d probably still be sitting around in my bedroom being miserable and writing bad poems.” “I don’t think most people would consider that a good deal,” I said. “Maybe not,” she told me. “What about you, are you sorry you . . . did what you did?” “I’m sorry they stopped me,” I told her. “What’s so bad about your life?” she said. “From what you’ve told me about your family, they don’t sound so bad.” “They’re not,” I admitted. “They aren’t the problem.” “Then what is?” “I am,” I said. “I’m the problem.” “And what’s wrong with you?” “Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “I’m just complicated.”

I’m your mother. If you’re seeing a boy, you should talk to me about it.” “Chris isn’t a boy,” I said, surprised to hear the words come out of my mouth. Sadie turned and looked at me. “What?” she said. “Chris isn’t a boy,” I repeated. “Chris is . . . a girl.”

Jeff for queer rights

“Yeah, well, you can’t go wrong with a teenage lesbian story line,”

so true

I watched their mouths moving without any sound coming out. And the more I watched them, the more I thought that that’s exactly how most people are. They move their mouths, but nothing important comes out. They just talk and talk and talk. That’s what Cat Poop wants me to do: talk. But like I keep telling him, there’s nothing to say.

Juliet shook her head. “You’re all just afraid,” she said. “You’re afraid you’re going to end up like Alice.” “I’m not,” I said before I even realized it. Everyone looked at me. “I’m not going to turn out like Alice,” I repeated. “You already are like her,” Juliet said. She was staring at my hands, which were resting on the table. Actually, she was staring at my wrists, which were still bandaged. “You just don’t know it yet.”

“What I know is that nothing was going to stop Alice from being crazy,” I said. “And what’s going to stop you?”

“Anyone can be crazy,” she answered. “That’s usually just because there’s something screwed up in your wiring, you know? But suicide is a whole different thing. I mean, how much do you have to hate yourself to want to just wipe yourself out?”

I couldn’t tell if she was making fun of me or not. I sort of don’t think she was. And I don’t think she wants to share her prize with me. She wants to be Queen Whack-job around here. Or maybe she knows that I’m not like her and the rest of them. I’m not one of her ten little soldier boys.

“I like your rabbit,” I said. Martha stopped rubbing the rabbit’s ears and looked at me. “Does he have a name?” She nodded, but didn’t say anything. “He’s your best friend, isn’t he?” I said, and she nodded again. “I have a best friend, too,” I told her. “Her name is Allie, and I tell her everything. Do you tell your bunny everything?” Martha nodded and held the bunny close to her, like she was protecting him. “I bet he’s a good listener,” I said. Then I told her, “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. We can just sit here together.” She buried her face in her rabbit’s fur, but I could see she was smiling. We sat like that for about an hour. I talked about some stuff, nothing important, and she sat there and listened. It didn’t matter that she didn’t say anything. I think she was happy just having company. I guess having a stuffed bunny for your only friend can get a little lonely.

ok that's so sweet

Now I just have these reddish scars there. I guess I always will, although Goody says they’ll fade over time. I don’t know if I want them to fade. That probably sounds totally freaky, but part of me doesn’t want to forget what it felt like, even though it hurt. If I forget about the pain, I might also forget that it was a really stupid idea to do it in the first place.

I think he was trying to figure out how big of a lie I was telling. The thing is, I wasn’t telling one at all.

I’m not sure what a good person is, exactly. On the one hand, it could be someone who always plays by the rules. But someone can follow the rules and still be a real jerk, you know? In fact, some of the biggest idiots I know are people who follow the rules, usually because they make you feel like crap when you don’t. Or maybe a good person is someone who’s always doing good things for other people. That sure isn’t me. I’d probably get kicked out of Boy Scouts if I was in it because I wouldn’t help old ladies across the street, if you get my drift. Not that I’m a jerk or anything; it’s just that other people aren’t always my main priority in life.

I said I was thankful that they never made me feel bad about myself. I was thinking about Sadie when I said that, about how her dad always made her feel like she was a problem. I also thought about Alice and her mother’s boyfriend. I still have a hard time believing that any mom would let that happen to her kid, even though you read about it in the paper and see it on the news all the time. Until I met Alice, I always assumed it happened to “other” people, as in people I didn’t know. I guess there are a lot more other people than I thought there were.

Personally, I think they killed the bear because they were afraid of it. That’s what people do, kill the things they’re afraid of.

Alert the media: Martha spoke to me today.

yooo

Today in group Cat Poop announced that it was Bone’s last day in the program.

aw :(

people still think what you look like is who you are.” I looked at the tattoos up and down his arms. I’d seen them before—you can’t miss them—but I’d never really looked at them. When I did, I saw that between the flaming skulls and hearts were the characters from Alice in Wonderland. He has the Red Queen and the Dormouse on one arm and the Mad Hatter and March Hare on the other one. One forearm has that picture of Alice with her neck all stretched out from eating the magic mushroom. “Is that who you are?” I asked Bone, pointing to Alice. He laughed. “No,” he said, “this is who I am.” He lifted his shirt, and on his back was the White Rabbit, wearing his waistcoat and looking at his watch. It was just like the illustration from the book. Only standing next to him, back-to-back, was another White Rabbit wearing a leather motorcycle jacket and boots and smoking a cigar. “That’s me,” said Bone. “Always running. Always late. I had it put on my back because no one can see it unless I show it to them. The ones on the outside are for people to stare at. But I keep the one I really love hidden.” “Why two of them?” I asked him. “Yin and Yang,” he said. “Dark and light. One’s the good rabbit and one’s the naughty rabbit.” “Which one is which?” I asked. He laughed again. “Both,” he said. “It’s kind of a bipolar thing. Like me.”

I feel like such a queer.

well

“Do you know what it’s like to have everyone expect you to be the best at something?” he said. I shook my head. “That’s not a problem for me,” I told him. “I’m not good at anything. Nothing important, anyway.” “I am,” Rankin said. “I’m good at throwing a ball and catching a ball and knocking people out of the way when they get between me and the ball. That’s what I’m good at.” “So what’s the problem with that? Everybody loves jocks, right?” I admit I said it kind of sarcastically, because he sounded like such a bonehead and I was still mad at him about what he’d done before. “Yeah,” Rankin said, snorting. “Everybody loves you. When you win. Then you’re the hero. But when you lose, you’re just the stupid meathead who couldn’t make the play.”

“He said if I wasn’t going to play football, I wasn’t his son.” “He did not,” I said. “Why would he say something so stupid?” “Because it’s how he feels,” said Rankin. “That’s all he sees me as, a football player. He was a football player. His dad was a football player. His dad was a football player. That’s what the guys in my family are.” “But you’re his kid,” I said, still not believing him. “And as far as he’s concerned, his kid plays football.”

We sat like that until the movie was over. I can’t even tell you how it ended. All I could think about was how warm Sadie’s hand was, and how I hoped I wasn’t sweating or anything. I forgot all about Rankin and, well, everything. It was like when I touched her, some magnetic force in her hand erased all of the stuff in my head.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” she said. “But you know what? You don’t need her. It’s time you had friends who see how great you are.” “Maybe,” I said. “No maybe,” said Sadie, taking my hands and holding them. Her thumbs touched my wrists, and I could feel her rubbing my scars. I let her.

It was Rankin. He was in my bed, naked, and he was jacking me off. It was so totally bizarre that for a minute I was sure I was still dreaming. But I felt his skin on mine, and his hand going up and down. I could even feel his breath where he was breathing against my neck.

are we gonna pretend this isn't assault or

I wasn’t sure why I was doing it. Maybe I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t do it. I just pretended I was still dreaming.

oh ok so we're not pretending this isn't assault thank god (if it won't be treated as assault after this line I will vomit and kill the author)

I don’t know why. But I did, and now I feel like crap. Dirty.

I think I’ve figured out what Rankin’s brand of crazy is. He’s projecting, or whatever they call it when you accuse someone else of being what you are. Personally, I call it being an asshole, but I guess they needed to come up with a name that sounds more official.

he was the one who wanted it. I didn’t.

First we were in group—all of us, even the people who are gone now. Cat Poop asked us to go around the circle and say what we were most afraid of. Alice said she was afraid of being alone. Bone said he was afraid of cars, which seemed weird until I remembered the whole gas station thing. Juliet said she was afraid of teeth, which because she’s Juliet didn’t seem strange at all. Rankin said he was afraid of losing. Martha didn’t say anything. Sadie said she wasn’t afraid of anything, and I believed her. In my dream it was like she had this force field around her that protected her from everything the rest of us have to watch out for. Then she looked at me and said, “Once you realize there’s nothing to be afraid of when you die, there’s nothing else to worry about.” When it was my turn, I couldn’t think of anything to say. I looked around at the rest of the group and thought how messed up they all were. Then I looked at my wrists and realized that they were bleeding again. I pulled my sleeves down to cover them, but I could feel the blood soaking through, and I was afraid everyone was going to notice and start laughing at me.

I’ll never know what Sadie would have thought about my dream. I was going to tell her, but she . . .

no fuck

And that’s when he dropped the bomb. “Jeff,” he said. “I have to tell you something. About Sadie.”

stop stop stop

You can even ask her.”

I don't think he can

“Jeff,” Cat Poop interrupted. “Sadie’s dead.”

fuck off fuck off fuck off

I don’t know how long I cried, but it felt like a hundred hours. I think part of me thought that if I just kept crying none of it would be real. Sadie wouldn’t be dead. The stuff with Rankin would never have happened. I wouldn’t be crazy. But she is. And it did. And I am.

“Use the razor!” I shouted at the television. “Use the razor!” But none of them did. Just me.

So that’s it. That’s the big secret. I tried to kill myself on New Year’s Eve. Just like Sadie did last night. Only she really did it. I don’t know all the details, just the basics. She took a bunch of pills. I don’t know what they were or where she got them. I’d like to think they were Wonder Drug. Then at least she could have gone thinking she was flying.

“We put new carpeting in your bedroom. It’s a beautiful color. What color would you say it is, Amanda?” Amanda looked at her. “Beige,” she said. “It’s beige.” “Oh, I think it’s more sand,” my mother said. “Isn’t that what the salesman said it was called: desert sand? Anyway, it looks wonderful with the paint. Amanda, what would you call that shade of blue?” “Blue,” said Amanda, looking at me and rolling her eyes. “I’d call it blue.”

I knew that he knew that there was more to my story than what I’d already told him. And suddenly I was really, really tired. Not of talking to him, but of not talking to him. I was tired of all the games I’d been playing, and of holding back. Maybe realizing how much I wanted Amanda to believe that I was okay is what did it. Maybe it was Sadie being dead, or Rankin being gone. I don’t really know. But I knew I was ready to talk. I sat down. “Okay,” I said. “Where should I start?” “Where every good story starts,” said Cat Poop. “At the beginning.”