Dear Internet 8: Now You Know Why

Dear Internet,

There you go. Now you know why I want to kill myself. I drive home from work each night and there’s this one tree just around the bend and I think, Is that tree big enough to kill me? When I open a letter with a kitchen knife I think, My wrist would probably open up just as easily. On hot days in the summer when I think going for a swim would be relaxing, I imagine diving down to the bottom of the lake and never looking up. When I get dressed, I wonder just how strong my belt is. When I take my antidepressants, I think, One more can’t hurt. Then one more after that, then another after that one, just like popping Tic-Tacs. Oh fuck, there’s that tree again.

You know, I grew up thinking all of this was normal. I thought everybody’s dad left an empty twelve-pack on the computer desk for their kids to clean up each morning. It was an everyday occurrence that your mother would be held down because all moms were bad listeners. All brothers were sociopathic assholes to their younger siblings. I was nothing special, not an exception, but the rule. Why else would nobody talk about this stuff? People only talked about the odd things, the exceptional things. What would be the point of telling your friends something normal? 

“Oh yeah, my dad took my brother out to the garage yesterday and tossed him around like a hacky sack.”  

“I mean, yeah?”

But there must have been a part of me that knew deep down that how I was feeling wasn’t normal. My teeny tiny prepubescent brain couldn’t process what that feeling was, but it felt that feeling anyway. I kept a suicide calendar from when I was in fifth grade till I moved out. Every day I thought of killing myself I’d mark an X on that day. As you’ve probably assumed, most days were crossed out. X, X, X, X, blank, X, X blank, blank, X, X, X, X, X, X, blank.  Something like that. I remember once my brother caught me tucking the calendar back underneath my bed and asked me what all the crossed-out days were for. I don’t remember what I told him. Whatever it was, he didn’t push it. I don’t know why I stopped using the suicide calendar. It just never crossed my mind to keep it going. But I still think about doing it. Not as much, but hey, I’m not in therapy for nothing.

I don’t think I’m going to carry on this blog much longer. It was an outlet at first, but now it’s just reminding me how lonely I am. I don’t have anyone. My parents used to tell me that I could tell them anything, but I don’t think they understood just how much “anything” encompasses. How am I supposed to tell them that their abuse and neglect make me want to die? They don’t get it. They can’t see what they did to me, partly because they’re just as depressed as me, but partly because they would have to face the fact that they were bad parents. I can’t imagine any parent would want to come to terms with that. So my mental health is left as something odd to tiptoe around. 

“Palmer, how’d this elephant get in the room?” 

“I think your son dragged it in.”

I can’t talk to them about how they fucked me up. Who else is on the list? “Grandparent.” Well, she’s dead. But let’s rewind. Imagine she isn’t dead. Could I talk to my grandmother about how shitty a father her son was? How do you broach that topic? 

“Nana, I hate to say it, but your son’s a dick.”

That’s an oof and a half. If she decides to hear me out, how detailed do I get? And if she believes me, how much of this would she blame on herself? And even if she doesn’t believe me, my relationship with her would be forever altered in a very bad way. I guess it would be a matter of just how deep I want to sink that knife in her back. I figure it’s better to at least have had someone I knew I could turn to for a good time and enjoy it while it lasted. I just wish it lasted a bit longer.

So cross Nana off the list. Next one up is… “sibling.” Oh fuck, sorry, I had to step away from the computer. I was laughing too hard.

After that is “romantic partner.” She left already. And I want to be clear here; she was under no obligation to fix me. She got out because she didn’t sign up for the kind of emotional baggage I have. I don’t hold what she did against her. That said, that doesn’t mean it still doesn’t hurt. I’ve thought of reaching out to her quite a few times, usually when I was drunk. But I still do sometimes, followed by checking up on her social media accounts, followed by a feeling of being kicked in the kidney when I see she’s not only moved on but is in a functioning relationship and has a new kid. And then I think just how far I want to sink that knife into her back. I never follow through in calling her. She deserved more than me back then, and she deserves to be left alone now. So no, I’ll cross her off my list too.

Up next, “closest friend.” Does my pillow count? I think I’m pretty close to that cashier at the Dollar General up the road. I mean, they say hi whenever I’m checking out. They even ask if I found everything okay. Now if that’s not caring, I don’t know what is. 

If the next person on this list is “next closest friend,” I’m lighting it on fire. Let’s see, “therapist.” Oh shit, I got one of those! 

“Hey Ma, I got one!”

“Is it helpin’ any?”

“I dunno, can you still see the elephant?”

“….no?”