If I knew he wouldn’t laugh in my face, I’d tell him he needed to go to regular therapy appointments. Hell, I’d go with him.
But I know my brother and he’ll never commit to anything like that. Doesn’t mean I can’t try, though, when he’s not drugged up and can listen to my concerns.
“Hey, ’sup, Way-Way?” Wilder says as I approach the side of his hospital bed, and I want to smack the lopsided grin off his face.
When we were toddlers, he couldn’t say my full name and ended up calling me Way-Way for years, even when he could finally say it. Now he just does it to antagonize me.
“Oh, not much,” I deadpan. “Just a typical night hangin’ out in the ER.”
He nods once. “Fun times.”
“Yeah, real fun.” I stare at him with intense narrowed eyes. His reflect back, except they’re filled with shame and guilt. I remember the previous times he felt awful for putting us through this and then trying to simmer down my frustration. “Are you in pain right now?”
“Nah.” He jerks his thumb. “Mr. IV over here is pumpin’ the good shit in me.”
“Good. Then you won’t feel anythin’ when I punch you in the face.”
His eyes beam with amusement. “I’d probably feel that.”
I roll my eyes. “I dunno whether to hug you or beat your ass. I’m so angry. And sad. But mostly, scared. You lost a lot of blood.”
“I know. They’ve been givin’ me that too.” He nods toward the other IV.
Grabbing a chair, I sit closer. “Talk to me. What happened yesterday that made you do this?”
I’m not sure how else to ask, so I blurt it out. He knows I want answers.
His gaze looks past me as he lifts a shoulder. “I dunno how to explain it. There’s this overwhelming doom feeling when it comes to depression. Like the stress of havin’ to be an adult and make grown-up decisions. The expectations of being the oldest sibling. The pressure to impress Dad and do a good job on the ranch. There’s this underlying sadness that consumes me in weird ways and it’s uncontrollable. Even when there isn’t anything particularly making me sad, it’s just there—haunting and taunting me. I want to curl up in a ball and sleep through the pain, but I can’t. I have responsibilities, so I try to ignore it and do everything in my power to distract myself, but eventually, it becomes unbearable. I needed to release the pain, even if it was momentarily. Eventually, it becomes an impulse I can’t fight anymore. That moment right before I pass out is when I’m finally numb, and then it becomes somethin’ I’m desperate to feel again and again.Relief.”
Every word of his confession stabs me in the gut. The weird sadness? I feel that, too. The pressure and stress—check and check. That level of pain, searching for relief, I also feel waves of it. Whether it’s mine or his I’m experiencing, I don’t always know.
“Unfortunately, I do get it,” I say softly, reaching for his hand. “Though I’ve never thought to do…” I nod toward his thigh, unable to say the words aloud. “I understand the feelin’ of it becomin’ too much.”
“I get the urges and find ways to cope without doing it, but this time, I just…needed to. It was almost like an out-of-body experience. Something I couldn’t control but at the same time like I couldn’t stop once I started. As soon as I saw the blood, my mind went blank. The depressive thoughts vanished. I only had to focus on one thing at that moment and that was cuttin’.”
I noticeably shiver as he talks about it. It’s not that blood makes me squeamish, but just the thought of seeing my own makes me nauseous.
“Doesn’t it hurt when you…do it?”
“Fuck yeah, it does, but it’s like a high. As soon as the edge of the razor pierces through my skin, my focus is on the physical pain. My brain stops repeatin’ negative thoughts and my mind goes blank for the first time in weeks, months, or even years. That’s when the flood of endorphins hits because I’m no longer being told how worthless and unlovable I am. It’s freeing.”
I sink my teeth into the inside of my cheek to prevent my emotions from taking over.
“I went too far tonight,” he admits.
“So you ain’t tryin’ to end your life?” I finally choke out because I need to hear him confirm it.
“No. Just cope with it.”
“So why didn’t you stop before it got as bad as it did?”
He shrugs. “I guess I wanted to see how much I could take so that relief lasted longer.”
My head and heart ache hearing him talk about this, but I’m glad he is. Better to be honest with me so I can hopefully notice the signs before he cuts again. I want him to open up to me before things get worse.
“Trust me, I don’t feel good about it,” he continues. “The guilt of puttin’ y’all through this again. The shame that I relapsed. It ain’t worth it when the consequences are worse. But I didn’t think about ’em at the time.”
Makes sense.All he could think about was relief.
