Broken People (11 page)

“Well,” I thought. I loved using a
nalogies, so I started with one. “Look at it like a car. You have a broken car. Knowing that it is broken doesn’t allow it to be repaired accurately. Having it diagnosed, and knowing
what
is broken allows a timely and accurate repair. And one that will, in fact, fix it.
Sir, your car is broken
, versus,
sir, your car is broken, and it needs a radiator to be repaired
. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, it does,” s
he answered.

“Also, that gets us about
half way
home. The knowing
what
it is. Then, there’s addressing it. Generally speaking, it helps to discuss your area of concern with someone else that has the same problem or problems that you do. It’s that common bond, that feeling that the person that you are speaking with has been there before. It’s what makes AA work for drunks. Everyone in AA has had the same problems. The stories that are told in those meetings are the same year after year, just told by different people. They find comfort in the fact that they aren’t alone in their faults or in their mistakes,” I thought of another analogy, of sorts, and continued.

“For instance, with the veterans diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or PTSD that I have spoken with, I have found these things
to be true. They come home from the war, and have a difficult time functioning. Upon returning, some have PTSD, and some don’t. It has been determined lately that there is something in the brain, the way we’re wired at birth, that makes you either a candidate for developing PTSD or not. At any rate, the veterans with PTSD. Some sit at home and are afraid to come out in public. When they do, a sudden certain movement, a smell, or a noise can cause their mind to return to a place, mentally, that they fear. So, they often sit at home and do nothing. They hide the fact that they were in the military. They cover their tattoos. The put away their boots and their BDU’s, and try to do their best to recover. When they finally do find out what’s wrong, and admit it, they only find comfort in talking to other veterans that have had the same types of incidents that have caused the same types of problems.” I began to think of my discussions of
the incident
, and felt my spine tingle.

“
The bottom line is this: A rape victim that has PTSD
has PTSD
. It’s the
same.
But, you won’t find someone returning from Fallujah talking to a rape victim trying to find a common bond,” I was starting to feel weak, and began to shake. I reached into my pocket, and got a chocolate bar. Alternating chocolate, coffee, chocolate, I ate it quickly, and allowed Michelle to speak.

“Kid, yes, that makes perfect sense. We find comfort in others who are
like us.
The Egyptian kids at my school hang out with the Egyptian kids. The kids that are into sports, and the kids that compete in debate, hang out with the kids in sports and debate. I think having someone with the exact same fault or faults as you may allow you to
feel
that you are normal. At least while you’re in their presence.”

“Just like
you
try to, Kid. Make a difference. Now, back to Shellie and broken people and people that are the same talking to people that are the same,” Michelle babbled.

“Jesus, Michelle, take a breath. I really wanted to ask you if you had anyone in
your school like Shellie, someone that really relied on social networking for a means of feeling alive. Someone that, in the absence of having their electronic Facebook friends, would have nothing or no one?” I took another drink of my coffee, and waited.

“Oh my God yes, t
ons of them. There are so many kids here that are social misfits. They are afraid of being rejected, so they don’t expose themselves to anyone in public. They’re shy, and I feel sorry for them. They stay on their phones all day and night. They Tweet, Instagram photos, they post things on Facebook, and they try to get recognition for being pretty, being smart, being intelligent, or being thin from their social networking friends. It’s so sad,”

“What if someone took one of those kids that you’re talking about, and
eliminated the social networking. What would happen?” I asked, now almost knowing the answer.

Michelle began again, “Kid, they’d just die. It has become such a necessity, such a way of life for these kids, it’s incomprehensible. They would probably, at least some of them, be suicidal. Can you imagine if when you were in school, your parents took every friend you had, and said you couldn’t have any of them any longer? For these kids, the
electronic friends,
as you call them, that’s all they have. I want to send you a pic of a girl that I was going to ask you about, anyway. This is important. And it‘s so funny you asked this question, and about Shellie. This friend of mine is having similar issues, and I am so worried about her. She is a mess. She‘s OCD about everything, has zero self-esteem, and thinks she’s fat, and she’s not. She self-harms. She has eating disorders. She broke up with her boyfriend. Her parents don’t really pay any attention to her. She looks at herself as not being worthy of being on this earth. I want you to read her. You know, look at her photo and read her, okay?” Before I had a chance to respond, Michelle asked again, “Okay?”
         “Sure, send it. I will call you back in two or three minutes.” I responded. I waited, finishing my coffee as I did. The phone, almost instantly beeped. I opened the text message, and there was a photo from Michelle. It was not a girl. It was a handsome boy. He had short hair, an athletic build, and he appeared to be troubled. I studied the photo. I could read this kid like a book. I sent Michelle a text, explaining I got a photo of a boy, not a girl. The phone rang, instantly. It was Michelle.

“Buns. I couldn’t find a pic of her on my phone, I will send one tonight. I just want to know if I should be worried about her. I took a few recent candid photos, I just
can’t find them. But, that boy, he’s a friend. Did you read him?” she asked. “Is he gay?”

“What?
Is he gay
?” I couldn’t believe she was asking this question. Not of
this
kid.

“Yes, Kid, is he gay?”

“No, he’s not gay, why?” I asked.

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I am fat. Yes, Michelle, I am a hundred percent certain, why?” I asked, wondering who this kid was.

“Well, I met him about a month ago, and he’s so nice. Kind of weird,
but nice. He thinks he’s gay.”

“Well, I will tell you what I know, and what I
think.
I know this. His father is a prick, and has spent this kid’s entire childhood telling him he will never accomplish anything. That he will never amount to anything and, additionally, his father will never give any form of recognition when the kid
does
accomplish anything. The kid suffers from
fear of failure.
Shit, it’s uhm,
atychiphobia.
That’s what I know. People that suffer from fear of failure often place themselves in situations in life that they
know
they can succeed at. They settle for mediocrity, instead of setting higher goals. It ends up being a
lifetime
of mediocrity if they don’t get help. Parents that humiliate their kids, constantly undermining them, or who are extremely unsupportive, create children like this. This kid, in my opinion, has made himself, at least in his mind, gay. He, subconsciously, has a fear of failing in a relationship. That’s what I think. Bad thing is this; he believes it, the gay part. It’s a subconscious self-preservation thing. Wow. But, he’s
not gay
. Not one bit. I know that.” I studied the photo on my phone as I spoke, shaking my head.

“Well, Kid, you made my day. I have to get back to my competition. I snuck away for a bit. I’m going to be in such trouble if I get caught I will send you a pic of my friend as soon as I can, okay? I am wo
rried about her. I really am,”

“Okay, M
ichelle, do that,” I responded.

“Bye, and don’t forget
Shellie,” she said, and hung up.

Shit, don’t forget Shellie.
I laid my phone down, and started typing my response to Shellie’s email. Suicidal people, generally speaking, don’t actually want to die. They want to stop hurting. Shellie was in pain. Considering all of our previous discussions, and Michelle’s input, Shellie was feeling as if she had no one. She was in pain. I knew I needed to be brief, and make her feel that at least I cared.

Shellie,

I am sorry for
the punishment that your parents have imposed on you. I know it may feel like it is more weight than you want on your shoulders right now, but in the big picture of life, it’s something you can manage. You have demonstrated more ability to manage events and catastrophes better than anyone else I have ever encountered. You impress me every time we speak. I feel in the short period of time that we have been emailing each other that we have become extremely close. It makes me proud to call you a friend. Let’s start a more frequent emailing process to try and break up the monotony of the day. I receive my email, as you know, on my phone as well. Look forward to hearing from you.

I miss you.

Kid

I looked at it, reread it, and felt like it was lacking. Suicide is so difficult. Don’t say too much, don’t say too little. People that are suicidal often feel as if no one would miss them if they were gone. I knew she’d feel this way, especially now. All of her friends were probably on Twitter or Facebook. She felt abandoned, I was sure. I logged off, closed my laptop, and placed it in my bag. I shouldered the bag and looked outside. The mafia had left. Scanning the lot for the Nightmare’s car produced nothing. Splendid. Short of suicidal girls, an otherwise perfect day. I scanned the store, making sure the Nightmare wasn’t hiding. I was the only patron. I smiled and started to walk out. The barista was sweeping the floor. As I opened the door, he made eye contact, and nodded.

I nodded in return. And
I wondered.
Is it me, or
……

Pulling the car out of the parking lot at an angle, I was traveling slow
ly to prevent it from scraping the exit ramp. A man, attempting to pull into the store, was stuck in traffic by my car blocking the ramp. As he sat in traffic, attempting to enter, I felt terrible. Cars were backing up behind him, and drivers began honking. Slowly, I exited a little more, making room for him to enter. In appreciation for my effort to make room, he nodded.

Vabulous
.

Chapter 11

Shoes not required

BRITNEY
.
When I was little, I dreamt of being older. I always thought older meant
better.
Not of
having
things, but of
doing
things, of being a family. Laughing, going, doing, loving, and just being. As I got older, I dreamt of having someone love me. From the time I was about eleven, I never felt as if I was getting any love from my parents. I was just something or someone that they needed to run through a cycle. My parents were processing a child through the factory of life
. Elementary school. Middle school. High school. College. Career. Get married. Have children.
They were never concerned with what I wanted or how I felt. I have never been asked by my parents how I
felt
. I lay here alone, while they sleep, as proof that they have no concern for my feelings. I can’t help but wonder, when I am gone, and they’re without a daughter, if the skin color of my boyfriend will matter.
I may have no after school activities. No friends can come over. I’m sorry, you have to be a doctor, and we do not want an attorney. We don’t want you to see that boy. Give us your phone. No use of social networking. No tattoos. Don’t wear makeup in public.

Right now, I lay here
smothered in an unbearable pain, a pain that can’t be described or imagined. Those who haven’t experienced this level of pain have no ability to understand how deep it cuts. This is more pain than I can ever be expected to live with. No one that has actually felt this degree of pain has ever lived to describe it. It’s impossible.

I am alone. I am afraid it will not stop. The pain has become a pressure, and the pressure is crushing me. And no one cares. No one is here
. I have no phone. No friends. No one loving me, and no one trying to stop me,
because no one cares.

Sitting at my desk, frustrated, I began to cry. Nothing matters. My fa
ther has blocked me from all Internet activities short of emailing. After I sent my last email, I logged off the computer. I remove some paper from my printer. Filled with pain and feeling empty, I began to write. As I wrote, I felt relieved. The more I wrote, the better I felt. The end is near. The pain is almost over. It will end soon. No one is willing to help me. No one cares enough to provide me with what I need to end this pain. The one person that truly loves me is gone, and my father will not allow him to return to my life. The words flow from my mind through the pen, and form on the paper. And...Then...I...Sign...My...Name.

Mother and Father,

Without a doubt, you will find this letter after you find my body. I guess, when you do, consider what I have written. Take a moment to actually consider what is written. Do
n’t just read it, understand it. And, ultimately, apply it. What would you have done, knowing now that the pain has been this severe, to stop this? I ask you to do that for my sister. Treat her every day like she may be in this pain tomorrow, because if you don’t pay attention to her needs, she will be. Don’t buy her a car. Give her a hug. Don’t tell her who she can’t go on a date with. Ask her to bring him home to meet you. Don’t tell her where to go to college, and what profession to choose, ask her how she feels about it. And, don’t try to buy her happiness. Give her love.

When I
was young, I was your pride and joy, your daughter. And I can’t help but ask, as I remove my bed sheets, where those feelings went. At what point in time did I become expendable? As I twist my bed sheets into a rope, I wonder, is a simple, ‘Britney, how was school today?’ too much to ask? The pain has become unbearable. You will not listen. You do not care enough to. I plead. I ask. And nothing changes. And, while you are at work, earning money to buy my little sister a car for her sixteenth birthday, I am hanging by my neck in the garage, waiting for you to come home from work so you can find me.

Let this letter be read. By all that are able. Because if this can save one
life, let that life be saved.

Tell Marc I love him.

And find comfort in knowing this.

The pain has ended.

Britney.

I heard my parents leave for work. I took a shower, walked into my closet and picked out a dress. I felt I should not wear shoes, that they may fall off, and it will look ridiculous, me hanging there with one shoe on and one off.  I placed the clothes on my bed. After carefully putting on my makeup, I got dressed. I looked in the mirror. I was beautiful. I looked thin. I wish I didn’t feel this pain. I removed my comforter, and removed my sheets. Twisting the sheet into a rope, I looked into the mirror as I tied it around my neck, making sure that it wouldn’t come undone. After I placed the note I had written on my dresser, I walked down the stairs, with my bed sheet rope around my neck. Bare foot, I walked to the garage.

In the garage,
I looked around, frantically, for my father’s ladder. Carefully, I placed the ladder where my mother parks her car, because she should be home first. I climbed to the top of the ladder, carrying the other end of my bed sheet rope in my hand. Before I reached the top of the ladder, I was able to reach the wooded structure above me. I carefully tied the end of the bed sheet to the wooden structure. The length of the bed sheet was so short that it held my head up at an angle, uncomfortably. I decided to climb a little further, and make it less tight.

Standing on the ladder, I started to pray.
Does praying, when committing suicide, fall on deaf ears? Does God understand the pain? I can’t take this. The pain is too much. Now, more than ever, it’s unimaginable. I began to try to kick the ladder, and make it fall. The ladder wobbled, and became stable again.
I can’t jump, this is too high
. I want to just fall. I hear angels calling my name. I kicked the ladder and made it wobble again, and as the stability of the ladder leaves my feet, I …….