Like a Whisper

By Stepy Kamei

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“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

You hurl your half-eaten protein bar into your bag as the good doctor comes into the claustrophobic examination room. You don’t know why, but you’ve always felt ashamed about being hungry, especially in front of doctors. Dr. Yee, or Yang, or something that sounds like it should be slapped onto the name of a dish at Panda Express, sits back down and makes eye contact with you, concern filling his eyes.

Is he an actor like you?

“I just really wanted to make sure I was getting the right information for you. I can tell you need help right away.” Great, now you’re a charity case. Bring in the celebrities, the dancing clowns looking for some good PR, am I right?

Dr. Panda Express turns his attention to his tiny notepad. You read it while he was gone (hey, he was gone for a while, and you were bored). Your eyes scanned over certain keywords – depression, anxiety, suicidal, abuse, breakup. The word “friends” was circled multiple times.

Good thing you have them. They’re the ones who kept pushing you to see a doctor, to get help.

They care more about you than you do.

“So I just need to ask one more time, to know if I need to commit you today or not – do you have a plan to take your life?”

You briefly bathe in an imagined memory – you know the one, where warm water caresses your skin like a sweet kiss, and you break open your wrists until the blood pools form beautiful rosebud blossoms blooming under your palms. Your eyes flutter in ecstasy, and you let your head tilt back to hit the tile. It may hurt your head a bit, but you have no cares anymore. The last thing you see is a Tungsten-stained ceiling.

“No. I’m safe for today,” you answer, the lie dancing on the edge of your lips.

“Ok. I’m glad to hear that. I would feel awful if anything were to happen to you.”

Please, you think. You hardly know me.

Are doctors so rich because they’re paid to lie?

*

Now, you’re heading out of the examination room and booking a follow-up appointment for one week from now. You’ve got a pocket full of names of nearby intensive outpatient programs, and a heart full of stones. You ask to use the bathroom before you head out, and the nurse silently points to the restroom door.

As you close the door behind you, you think to yourself, amused, I could do it in this bathroom, right here, right now. And they wouldn’t know until my blood seeped under and out the door. Why would they let a suicidal person go in a locked bathroom by themselves?

You do your business like a good girl and get out of there before you let that thought turn concrete. But now you’re all mixed up and you can’t find the exit. Dr. Panda notices your confusion, before you notice he hasn’t moved since you asked about the bathroom.

Has he stood sentinel for you?

“You have to make a right,” he says with a soft smile.

“Ok. Thanks.”

You make your way out of the building. Now, to get on with the rest of your day. There will be time to wallow tonight.

*

You languish on your couch, beached like a whale, and flip between two recently received text messages.

From your friend, Annie: I’m so proud of you for seeing the doctor today!

From your former fuck buddy, CJ: Your pussy feels amazing. Let me fill you up with cum tonight.

You almost laugh at the juxtaposition, but you don’t have the energy. After pausing for a few silent seconds, you flip to another text you received a few days ago –

the one that sent you spiraling down again. The one that landed you in a bathtub with running water, that made you call your ex, Peter, who asked about the sound of running water in the background: Sophie, have you hurt yourself yet? Sophie, talk to me, and you told him you wanted to stop being such a coward and just die already, just die already, join your dad already, join grandma now, be at peace now, or maybe be in hell now, at least it isn’t here now, come on take the razor to your wrist already, no not like that, you actually have to cut deep, carve yourself up like a pretty little pumpkin, Halloween is your favorite holiday after all.

Ugh, girl, you flaked. You frosted fucking flake.

You’re safe, for now.

In the present, you read that damn text for the hundredth time: I’ve done the unforgivable to you, and I will never forgive myself for it.

You don’t forgive yourself for forgiving him so quickly.

You asked him what this meant. He never responded. So in your despair of being ignored, you got in a bathtub and called your ex, Peter, who called all kinds of people on your behalf.

And here we are.

*

You called the first treatment center on the list. A nice woman responded, but she mentioned that since she wasn’t the intake officer, just a counselor, she couldn’t set up an intake appointment with you, but she’d be sure to have Tricia call you back as soon as possible. You know what that means. Smiling, you say, “OK” and hang up.

You hope your message gets lost, so you have an excuse – well, no one helped me. I tried!

But then you get a call within the hour. Tricia wants to set up an appointment with you as soon as possible. Wow, they actually meant that. You’re disappointed everything is turning out so right, because this means you actually may start feeling better, and that means you’ll feel the next sadness even more deeply. That’s the problem with joy, and that’s why you don’t want to get better – it makes the darkness feel so much thicker.

*

You’re sitting in the parking lot of a rundown CVS. You were on your way to CJ’s place. You didn’t really want to go, but you think maybe getting dick will make you feel just a bit better, just a bit wanted, just a bit alive.

But you don’t want him. You don’t want to get fucked, to use the words he oh-so-romantically sexts you. You want to be held and listened to. You want to be kissed so softly it may as well be a whisper tracing the outline of your lips. You want to wake up in the arms of someone you’re madly in love with, who – and this is the important part – who is also madly in love with you.

You thought you had that once. It was wonderful, the lie.

You went into the CVS to get condoms but they were locked up, and you were embarrassed because you already feel like such a whore, so you went back to your car. You tell CJ you’re on your way with condoms, and he has to wear one.

He responds: It sounds like you don’t really want to come over…

He is right, of course. You don’t. You know what you want, but you’ve never had it, and you don’t deserve it.

*

He’s in your head again, which is nothing new. You remember that time towards the end when you went to get breakfast together, and you looked up from your waffle and stared him right in his honey-colored eyes and silently said, “If you ask me right now I’ll say yes.”

He could always read the intensity in your eyes. He probably knew what you were thinking, which is probably why he said to you,

“Ready to go, babe?”

But you know you shouldn’t think about him, or reminisce on lies.

And after you think this, you claw his name into the keyboard and prowl his social media accounts. And you look for clues, clues that don’t exist. You make up stories in your head: He never loved you. He’s moved on. You don’t deserve his attention, you never did, it was a fluke.

You want to stop thinking about him, but you’re terrified to let him go. Even if it was all a lie, even if it lead you to so much distress – you don’t want him to move on, at least before you’ve moved on first. You want to be with him but you don’t know how you can ever trust him again. What do you do?

You’re reminded of what your friend Jackie said to you the other day: “At least now you know what Shakespeare was writing about.”

*

You had your assessment at the Intensive Outpatient Program earlier today. It didn’t make you feel better, like you had hoped it would. It’s always cathartic to let your trauma spill from your lips, and you always like the sympathy you get. It’s validating, if not way too late. As you speak, the intake officer groans and says things like, “No child ever deserves that treatment”, “I’m so, so sorry”, and your favorite, “There are so many reportable things in what you just said.” There are numerous times when she looks up at you from her notepad and says somberly, “I’m really glad you’re seeking help. I can tell you really need it.” You feel weird about enjoying her sympathy so much – the way it washes over you like warm water. It makes you feel less crazy – yes, the things you experienced in your early years really were awful, and yes, you weren’t wrong for thinking you were being treated badly. Of course, sympathy can’t turn back the clock, but it’s pretty much the only nourishment that can somehow make past pain a bit easier to manage.

But as you leave the hospital, and the officer says she’ll let you know if you’ve been accepted as soon as possible, you still feel hollow and empty. You don’t think anything can help fill the hole at this point. The feminist in you gets mad when you think to yourself, only love will fill this emptiness.

You know you shouldn’t attach your value to your relationship status, but goddammit, you just want it. More than career success, more than financial stability, more than awards for your writing – you want to wake up in the arms of someone who loves you. Is that a tall order?  You know it is, so you force yourself to never want another person.

You hate your isolation. And yet you are too raw to open yourself up, ever again.

You have stitched your heart shut for the last time.

*

As you wash your hands in your bathroom later that day, you glance over at your bathtub. Will it be the place where you draw your last breaths?

*

Here’s the truth of it all. You don’t want to die. Really, you don’t. But you can’t think of any other way to escape the big emptiness tearing holes in your soul. You’re blinded to anything that may help you feel better in the future. Anything with a semblance of hope is mutilated by your broken brain, before you have a chance to process it.

You must find God in the darkness, an inspirational poet once said.

Too bad you’re insanely against religion.

And yet you find yourself speaking to the sky sometimes. You dirty hypocrite, you.

Stepy Kamei

Author’s NoteThe majority of “Like a Whisper” was written within a one-week period of a deep depressive episode in August 2017. It’s essentially a poetic diary entries and was composed without a filter or conscious effort to contain the raw emotion pouring onto the page. I feel lucky and honored that The Bookends Review chose to publish this piece, as it is a deeply and profoundly dark work. Suicidal ideation is surrounded by shame, which is why I was so nervous to make this pieces public—until I remembered why I write. I write for personal catharsis, yes, but it is ultimately my hope to heal someone else with my ability to transcribe my experience into relatable stories. To anyone struggling with mental illness: I hope my transparency encourages you to be honest in your own battle. I’m rooting for you.