Far Behind

Where the Sunbeams End: Chapter 19

Photo by Stormseeker on Unsplash

I know how the story goes, at least from my own perspective. And yet I struggle to tell it. 

I find that every minute spent searching for answers, searching for reasons why I am who I am, I only realize again and again that the search is fruitless, each minute wasted. The truth is that I’m no longer concerned with what happened to me or why I did the things I did, why my mind is sick, and I no longer fear the psychosis and mania that wreaked havoc on my life. I fought so long with bipolar, but after a while you finally give in and accept it as a part of who you are. It is what it is. I still struggle everyday, but don’t we all? It helps to embrace the daily struggle and give yourself some grace. 

This place within my subconscious, the dark place. Well, it’s beginning to dwindle. There is simply too much to be grateful for in each present moment. It feels as if I’ve let the light in and let the secrets out. And yet I still have more to tell. 

~~~

The two of us sat at the kitchen table. Me and Steve. The smooth hardwood surface. A few crumbs and drops of leftover dinner crusted to the wood. The right side of the table was always littered with various objects, a place to drop your belongings upon your return home. Dad’s can of cigarette tobacco usually sat on that side, with a few packs of rolling papers. Each morning before work he’d sit down and roll out his daily allowance. His stroke changed all that. He’d finally given up smoking. 

Steve was Dad’s roommate in college. An old friend of the family. 

“I put a gun in my mouth, I was gonna pull the trigger,” said Steve. His eyes, heavy.

What do you say when someone lays that on you? I thought about what it might taste like, all that cold steel against your tongue. It’s not as if I’d never contemplated death or dying, but I’d also never made a suicide plan, yet alone an attempt. 

Before responding I thought of a guy I knew, who had taken his own life. He’d tried to hang himself, but someone had saved him. A short time later he set himself aflame. “Please, kill me,” he had said as the fire engulfed him. I’d certainly experienced the highs of mania, but I had never known the true depths of depression or suicide. But was it out of the realm of possibility? Certainly not. 

I looked across the table into Steve’s swelling eyes. 

“I wanted to die,” he said. 

“No Steve, we love you man.” That’s all I can remember saying. 

~~~

It’s difficult to forget that version of Steve who came to live with us after Dad’s stroke. The Steve who was mourning the loss of his mother and struggling to find a way forward. He had lost his job at the bank, followed by his apartment in Pennsylvania. He was certainly bitter about the way his life had drifted. He seemed unable to take any kind of responsibility for what had happened over the last year, not that I know the whole story. But it was hard to live with Steve, hard to see someone you cared about give up completely. 

Steve had always been a fun loving character in my eyes. Yeah, maybe he drank too much. He had joked that he would spread the love around to different liquor stores so that no one quite knew exactly how much tequila he was consuming. He could also be a terrible flirt, but he had charm and I never questioned whether or not Steve cared about me. I try to remember him in the best possible light. It wasn’t Steve we were really living with. It was depression. 

I do get the feeling that Steve had struggled with depression throughout his life. When his mom passed away, Dad and I went up to the service and helped Steve move into his apartment. He had been living with his mother. The house was divided into two separate living areas. Each had their own entrance and everything. Steve was not what you would call a clean freak.  

“Don’t ever let it get this bad,” Dad had whispered to me as we walked into Steve’s side of the house. 

I’ll just say the place was a true man cave. There was a path through the dirt on the floor where Steve would walk. But I wasn’t sure that he’d ever laid down a vacuum cleaner. There was junk here and there, he was no hoarder, but it was cluttered. And I remember the right side of the couch sinking through the floor. Maybe I should have known then that Steve was dealing with some mental health issues, but who was I to judge? 

But judging is exactly what we did after a while. Steve sort of broke us down and we couldn’t help but sit and talk about what to do about him. It was the negativity that seemed to emanate from him that eventually broke us. Judith, Dad, and I. 

I had started working at the Home Depot on the night shift. Stocking shelves and learning to drive different types of forklifts. The work was good for me although I was only making minimum wage. I had been hired as a lot attendant, again just keeping the carts in order and helping load vehicles. When they moved me to the night shift I should have stood up and asked for more money, but I was really just happy to be part of a team. I at least felt valued and I had found that drive again. I wanted to prove myself. 

And yet again I was back to smoking pot and putting off my bipolar medications. But I was more aware of my daily mental state. I found a routine that seemed to work for me. And of course there was a small furry friend to greet me when I got home. 

Judith would usually be asleep already, so I would sneak off with Lucy to the laundry room, large glass bong in hand. Lucy would hunt for crickets or beetles on the floor while I took my nightly dose of cannabis. 

I found that I had started to avoid Steve. I think everyone kinda did. Our family had been through a good amount of change and heartbreak, but we were all looking toward the future with hope. Steve had lost hope. But I feel bad. I wish I could have been more understanding, been a real friend, had the difficult conversations with him, or simply asked about his day. 

Instead we’d have whispered conversations together about him. I felt somewhat above him, just because I was working. We pushed him away in the end. It was never supposed to be a long term arrangement, but still. I feel bad.

Dad finally confronted him about finding a job. Steve became defensive, stating that he had no clothes for an interview or anything. Dad gave him some money. Steve took the money and decided to leave. I’m not real sure where he went, but he was gone. It hurts to lose a friend. Maybe even more so when you know they could still be out there somewhere.