I took my Zoloft every day. Some days I woke up and got out of bed and brushed my teeth like any normal human being; some days I woke up and lay in bed and looked at the ceiling and wondered what the hell the point was of getting out of bed and brushing my teeth like any normal human being. But I always managed to take it. I never tried to take more than one, either; it wasn’t that kind of drug. It didn’t make you feel anything, but then after a month, just like they said, I started to feel that there was a buoy keeping me upright when I got bad. If the Cycling started there was a panic button attached to my good thoughts; 1 could click it and think about my family, my sister, my friends, my time online; the good teachers at school—the Anchors.
I even spent time with Sarah. She was so smart, smarter than me for sure. She’d be able to handle what I was going through without seeing any doctors. Her homework bordered on algebra even though it was only fourth grade, and I helped her with it, sometimes doodling spirals or patterns on the side of the pages while she worked. I didn’t do maps anymore.
“Those are cool, Craig,” she would say.
“Thanks.”
“Why don’t you do art more?”
“I don’t have time.”
“Silly. You always have time.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Yes. Time is a person-made concept.”
“Really? Where’d you hear that?”
“I made it up.”
“I don’t know if that’s true. We all live within time. It rules us.”
“I use my time how I want, so I rule it.”
“You should be a philosopher, Sarah.”
“Uggg, no. What’s that? Interior design.”
My eating came back around: first coffee yogurt, then bagels, then chicken. Sleeping, meanwhile, was two-steps-forward, one-step-back. (That’s one of the golden rules of psychology: the shrinks say that everything in our lives is two-steps-forward, one-step-back, to justify that time you, say, drank paint thinner and tried to throw yourself off a roof. That was just taking a step back.) Some nights I wouldn’t sleep, but then for the next two I slept great. I even dreamed: flying dreams, dreams of meeting Nia on a bus and talking with her, looking at her, seeing her off a few stops down the line. (Never having sex with her, unfortunately.) Dreams that I was I jumping off a bridge and landing on giant fuzzy dice, bouncing across the Hudson River from Manhattan to New Jersey, laughing and looking back at which numbers I had landed on.
When I couldn’t sleep, though, it sucked. I’d think about the fact that my parents weren’t going to leave me much money and they might not have enough to send my sister to college and I had a history assignment to do and how come I didn’t go to the library today and I hadn’t checked my e-mail in days—what was I missing in there? Why did I fret so much about e-mail? Why was I sweating into the pillow? It wasn’t hot. How come I had smoked pot and jerked off today?—I had developed a rule: on the days you jerk off you don’t smoke pot and on the days you smoke pot you don’t jerk off, because the days you do both are the ones that become truly wasted days, days where you take three steps back.
I started to work in phases a little bit. For three weeks I’d be cool, fine, functional. Even at my most functional, I wasn’t someone you’d pay a lot of attention to; you wouldn’t see me in the halls at school and go “There he goes, Craig Gilner—I wonder what he’s up to.” You’d see me and go, “What does that poster say behind that guy—is the anime club meeting today?” But I was there, that was the important thing. I was at school as opposed to home in my bed.
Then I’d get bad. Usually it happened after a chill session at Aaron’s house, one of those glorious times when we got really high and watched a really bad movie, something with Will Smith where we could point out all the product placements and plot holes. I’d wake up on the couch in Aaron’s living room (I would sleep there while he slept with Nia in the back) and I’d want to die. I’d feel wasted and burnt, having wasted my time and my body and my energy and my words and my soul. I’d feel like I had to get home right now to do work but didn’t have the ability to get to the subway. I’d just lie here for five more minutes. Now five more. Now five more. Aaron would eventually get up and I’d pee and force myself to interact with him, to get breakfast and hold down a few bites. Nia would ask me “You all right, man?” and one Saturday morning, while Aaron was out getting coffee, I told her no.
“What’s wrong?”
I sighed. “I got really depressed this year. I’m on medication.”
“Craig. Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry.” She came over and hugged me with her little body. “I know what it’s like.”
“You do?” I hugged back. I’m not a crier; I just look it; I’m a hugger. Cheesy, I know. I held the hug as long as I could before it got awkward.
“Yeah. I’m on Prozac.”
“No way!” I pulled back from her. “You should have told me!”
“You should have told me! We’re like partners in illness!”
“We’re the illest!” I got up.
“What are you on?” she asked.
“Zoloft.”
“That’s for wimps.” She stuck her tongue out. She had a ring. “The really messed-up people are on Prozac.”
“Do you see a therapist?” I wanted to say “shrink,” but it sounded funny out loud.
“Twice a week!” She smiled.
“Jesus. What is wrong with us?”
“I don’t know.” She started dancing. There wasn’t any music on, but when Nia wanted to dance, she danced. “We’re just part of that messed-up generation of American kids who are on drugs all the time.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think we’re any more messed up than anybody before.”
“Craig, like eighty percent of the people I know are on medication. For ADD or whatever.”
I knew too, but I didn’t like to think about that. Maybe it was stupid and solipsistic, but I liked to think about me. I didn’t want to be part of some trend. I wasn’t doing this for a fashion statement.
“I don’t know if they really need it,” I said. “I really need it.”
“You think you’re the only one?”
“Not that I’m the only one … just that it’s a personal thing.”
“Okay, fine, Craig.” She stopped dancing. “I won’t mention it, then.”
“What?”
“Jesus. You know why you’re messed up? It’s because you don’t have a connection with other people.”
“That’s not true.”
“Here I am, I just told you I have the same problem as you—”
“It might not be the same.” I had no idea what Nia had; she might have manic-depression. Manic-depression was much cooler than actual depression, because you got the manic parts. I read that they rocked. It was so unfair.
“See? This is what I mean. You put these walls up.”
“What walls?”
“How many people have you told that you’re depressed?”
“My mom. My dad. My sisters. Doctors.”
“What about Aaron?”
“He doesn’t need to know. How many people have you told?”
“Of course Aaron needs to know! He’s your best friend!”
I looked at her.
“I think Aaron has a lot of problems too, Craig.” Nia sat down next to me. “I think he could really benefit from going on some medication, but he’d never admit it. Maybe if you told him, he would.”
“Have you told him?”
“No.”
“See? Anyway, we know each other too well.”
“Who? Me and you? Or you and Aaron?”
“Maybe all of us.”
“I don’t think so. I’m glad I know you, and I’m glad I know him. You can call me, you know, if you’re feeling down.”
“Thanks. I actually don’t have your new number.”
“Here.”
And she gave it to me, a magical number: I put it with her name in all caps on my phone. This is
a girl who can save me, I thought. The therapists told you that you needed to find happiness within yourself before you got it from another person, but I had a feeling that if Aaron were off the face of the earth and I was the one holding Nia at night and breathing on her, I’d be pretty happy. We both would be.
At home I got through the bad episodes by lying on the couch and drinking water brought from my parents, turning the electric blanket on to get warm and sweating it out. I wanted to tell people, “My depression is acting up today” as an excuse for not seeing them, but I never managed to pull it off. It would have been hilarious. After a few days I’d get up off the couch and return to the Craig who didn’t need to make excuses for himself. Around those times, I would call Nia to tell her I was feeling better and she would tell me she was feeling good too; maybe we were in synch. And I told her not to tease me. And she would smile over the phone and say, “But I’m so good at it.”
In March, as I had eight pills left of my final refill, I started thinking that I didn’t need the Zoloft anymore.
I was better. Okay, maybe I wasn’t better, but I was okay—it was a weird feeling, a lack of weight in my head. I had caught up in my classes. I had found Dr. Minerva—the sixth one that Dr. Barney and I tried—and found her quiet, no-nonsense attitude amenable to my issues. I was still getting 93’s, but what the hell, someone had to get them.
What was I doing taking pills? I had just had a little problem and freaked out and needed some time to adjust. Anyone could have a problem starting a new school. I probably never needed to go to a doctor in the first place. What, because I threw up? I wasn’t throwing up anymore. Some days I wouldn’t eat, but back in Biblical times people did that all the time—fasting was a big part of religion, Mom told me. We were already so fat in America; did I need to be part of the problem?
So when I ran out of the final bottle of Zoloft, I didn’t take any more. I didn’t call Dr. Barney either. I just threw the bottle away and said Okay, if I ever feel bad again, I’ll remember how good I felt that night on the Brooklyn Bridge. Pills were for wimps, and this was over; I was done; I was back to me.
But things come full circle, baby, and two months later I was back in my bathroom, bowing to the toilet in the dark.
fourteen
My parents are outside hearing me retch up the dinner I just ate with them. I look at the door; I think I can hear Dad chewing the last bite he took when he got up from the table.
“Craig, should we call someone?” Mom asks. “Is it an emergency?”
“No,” I say, getting up. “I’m going to be all right.”
“Um, hey, yeah, I told your mom not to make the squash,” Dad jokes.
“Heh,” I say, climbing to the sink. I wash out my mouth with water and then mouthwash and then more water. My parents pepper me with questions.
“Do you want us to call Dr. Barney?”
“Do you want us to call Dr. Minerva?”
“Do you want some tea?”
“Tea? Give the man some water. You want water?”
I turn on the light—
“Oh. He had the light off. Are you okay, Craig? Did you slip?”
I look at myself in the bathroom light. Yes, I’m okay. I’m okay because I have a plan and a solution: I’m going to kill myself.
I’m going to do it tonight. This is such a farce, this whole thing. I thought I was better and I’m not better. I tried to get stable and I can’t get stable. I tried to turn the corner and there aren’t any corners; I can’t eat; I can’t sleep; I’m just wasting resources.
It’s going to be tough on my parents. So tough. And my little sister. Such a beautiful, smart girl. Not a dud like me, that’s for sure. It’ll be hard to leave her. Not to mention it might mess her up. Plus my parents will think they’re such failures. They’ll blame themselves. It’ll be the most important event in their lives, the thing that gets whispered by other parents at parties when their backs are turned:
Did you hear about their son?
Teen suicide.
They’ll never get over it.
I don’t know how anyone could.
They must not’ve known the warning signs.
But you know what, it’s time for me to stop putting other people’s emotions ahead of my own. It’s time for me to be true to myself, like the pop stars say. And my true self wants to blast off this rock.
I’ll do it tonight. Late tonight. In the morning, specifically. I’ll get up and bike to the Brooklyn Bridge and throw myself off it.
Before I go, though, I’ll sleep in Mom’s bed for one final night. She lets me sleep there when I’m feeling bad, even though I’m too old—Dad’ll sleep in the living room. There’s plenty of space by her, and it’s not like we touch or anything; she’s just available to bring me warm milk and cereal. Tonight is something I owe her; her only son spending time with her before he goes. I’d be heartless not to. I’ll hug my dad too, and my sister. But I’m not leaving any notes. What kind of crap is that?
“I’m okay,” I say, unlocking the bathroom door and stepping out. My parents corner me in a hug that mimics the one at Aaron’s blowout party, when we were confirming that our futures were bright.
“We love you, Craig,” Mom says.
“This is true,” Dad says.
“Uh,” I say.
With Dr. Minerva I talk about my Tentacles and Anchors. Here’s something for you, Doctor: my parents are now part of the Tentacles, and my friends too. My Tentacles have Tentacles, and I’m never going to cut them off. But my Anchor, that’s easy: it’s killing myself. That’s what gets me through the day. Knowing that I could do it. That I’m strong enough to do it and I can get it done.
“Can I sleep in your bed tonight?” I ask Mom.
“Sure, honey, of course.”
Dad nods at me.
“I’m ready for bed, then.” I go into my room and pull out clothes to sleep in, stash another pile to die in. I’ll get them when I leave in the morning. Mom announces that she’s making some warm milk and it’ll help me sleep. I go to my sister’s room. She’s up, sketching a kitchen at her desk.
“I love ya, little girl,” I tell her.
“Are you okay?” she responds.
“Yeah.”
“You threw up.”
“You heard?”
“It was like eccccccchhhh reeccccccch blacccchhh, of course I heard.”
“I turned the water on!”
“I have good ears.” She points to her ears.
“You do good throw-up impressions, too,” I say.
“Yeah.” She turns back to her sketch. “Maybe when I grow up I could be like a stand-up comedian, and just get onstage and make those noises.”
“No,” I say, “what you could do, or what I could do, since I’m so good at it, is get up onstage and actually throw up, and people would pay to watch, like I was a professional vomit-er.”
“Craig, that is so gross.”
But I don’t think it’s gross. I think it’s kind of a good idea. How does performance art get started, after all?
Don’t let that distract you, soldier.
Right, I won’t.
You’ve made your decision and you’re sticking to it, is that correct?
Yes, sir.
The point of you being in this room is to say good-bye to your sister, is that not right?
Absolutely, sir.
I’m sorry to see it come to this, soldier. I thought you had promise. But you gotta do what you gotta do, and sometimes you gotta commit hara-kiri, ya know?
Yes, sir.
I hug Sarah. “You’re very sweet and smart, and you have great ideas. Stick with them.”
“Of course.” She looks at me. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re bad. Don’t try and fool me.”
“I’ll be all right tomorrow.”
“Okay. You like my kitchen?”
She holds it up. It’s practically a blueprint, with
the swinging quarter-circles for doors and the sink and refrigerator outlined in crisp, bird’s-eye detail. It looks like something someone would pay for.
“It’s amazing, Sarah.”
“Thanks. What are you doing now?”
“I’m going to sleep early.”
“Feel better.”
I leave her room. Mom already has the warm milk for me and my place all set up in her bed.
“You feeling better?”
“Sure.”
“Are you really, Craig?”
“Yes, jeez, sure.”
“Lean back on the pillows.” I get in her bed—the mattress is firm and real. I scrunch my feet under the covers and savor that feeling—fresh linen over your feet, bunching up in little mountain ranges. That’s a feeling everyone can enjoy. Mom hands me the milk.
“It’s only nine o’clock, Craig; you’re not going to be able to go to sleep.”
“I’ll read.”
“Good. Tomorrow we’ll schedule something with Dr. Barney to help you. Maybe you need new medicine.”
“Maybe.”
I sit and drink the warm milk and think nothing. It’s a talent I’ve developed—one thing I’ve learned recently. How to think nothing. Here’s the trick: don’t have any interest in the world around you, don’t have any hope for the future, and be warm.
Damn, though. There’s someone else I should call. I pick the cell out of my pocket and flip it open to the name that’s all caps. I hit SEND.
“Nia?” I ask when she picks up.
“Hi, yeah, what’s up?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“What about?”
I sigh.
“Ohhhh. Are you okay, man?”
“No.”
“Where are you?”
“At home. I’m in my mom’s bed, actually.”
“Whoa, we have bigger problems than we thought, Craig.”
“No! I’m just here because it helps me sleep. Don’t you remember when you were a little kid, sleeping in your parents bed was like, such a treat?”
“Well, my dad died when I was three.”
Shoot. That’s right. Some of us have actual things to complain about.
“Right, sorry, um, I—”
“It’s okay. I slept with my mom sometimes.”