Some people are Islands.
She had never been quite right. But her mental stability ebbed and flowed. She was molested and beaten as a child. Forced to do strange things, not even of a sexual nature. Just weird acts that seemed unnatural. But that wasn’t the only thing that was wrong with her. That wasn’t the root cause. She clearly had other mental issues, not stemming from child hood tramua.
As a teen she acted out occasionally in outbursts but for the most part was calm. She kept herself together the best she could. When she was totally falling apart she internalized it, as much as could be done. After graduating high school she got a job working at a fast food chain and put her self through a community college, again off and on seeing various psychologists and psychiatrists. After that she took out loans for college. She graduated with a degree in Literature.
After that she started seeing doctors pretty regularly. As stable as she could.
He had come into her life two months earlier. At that time, she was just pulling her life back together. She had found some medication that was finally keeping her stable. She was able to hold a job, editing letters and other paperwork for a local lawyer’s office. Things were still tough and she was still a wreck, but she was finally getting things together.
He was weird and perfect. He never graduated from any school but was incredibly knowledgable, he knew how to hold her. He couldn’t comfort her perfectly, but he could comfort her in such a way that, she though maybe no one else could.
She cried everyday, and he didn’t care. When she rolled over the thought of the myriad of prescriptions she took, there was alway a duality there. Are these things destroying me? Are they taking my personality away. Can I live without them? What do they really do to me? She fought these thoughts off mostly with how well she was doing, at this moment. That it had in fact been the medication that was keeping her “stable” and alive.
On several occasionas he expressed he understood the nature of her, back and forth hatred of the medicine’s she took. He would even try to organize side effect charts and possible effects, and suggestions for the doctors. He only did this when he thought she might actually be receptive to these sorts of conversations, which was rarely.
They would talk deeply about Keroack deeply, something they both enjoyed. Sometimes Faulkner and Plath, more of her favorites. Middle of the road, were things like J D Salinger. But when it was his turn it always turned to Burroughs or Bukowski, though she didn’t like the lowbrow styles, she enjoyed his passion.
Most of the time she didn’t want to talk. But she did want to hear, and not just background noise from a tv or a radio, but something real. He picked up this early on in their relationship(?). He would talk about Aristotle, and his criticism’s thereof, never once siting his sexism or political incorectness. He spoke about Socrates as a crazy schizophrenic. When they were both feeling particularly morbid he would talk about Mengele’s attempts to change the eye color’s of “patients” by injecting chemical’s into them. He spoke about Hadrian’s wall, and tha appalatian trail. About how Estonia was full of hacker children
She knew he had never left the country, and detested hiking. She had never seen him read a book. He worked at a local grocery store stocking shelves.
As far as he knew her only living relative she kept in contact was her sister. They rarely talked and when he overheard the conversations, they sounded more like check ups.
“Are you taking your medication”
“Of Course”
“Are you ok”
“You know how I am”
“I just want you to be ok.”
A few days after that phone call they were walking down the sidewalk. A mangy but somewhat adorable puppy approached them, he looked down at it and said, “Hey little guy, where are you from?”
She responded, “Don’t end a sentence in a preposition.”
He chuckled “So what do you have a copy of Strunk and White under your bed?”
“Quit it, quit it, quit it” she screamed.
“What?”
“You never went to college, you shouldn’t say things like that.”
“…I’m sorry, I uh…”
“Nevermind, just nevermind” she screamed and ran off.
He was confused, but decided the best action was to let her cool off, he would call her later tonight.
Later that night he made the phone call…She didn’t answer, he was concerned.
He hadn’t heard from her by the next day, after completing his shift he headed over to her apartment. He knocked, no answer. He slipped his debit card in the door, jiggled the handle until he could open it. There was no sign of her. He went to the bathroom to wash his face, and that’s where she was. Wrists and throat slit by a double edged razor. He called 911 as though it would do any good.
He and her sister, were the only attendees at the funeral. Her sister asked who he was. He said “I think I a..was her boyfriend.”
“Why did she do it?”
“I don’t know, there was a note”
He handed it to her, it said:
“He’s not real.
I’m crazy.”
Some people are Islands.
She had never been quite right. But her mental stability ebbed and flowed. She was molested and beaten as a child. Forced to do strange things, not even of a sexual nature. Just weird acts that seemed unnatural. But that wasn’t the only thing that was wrong with her. That wasn’t the root cause. She clearly had other mental issues, not stemming from child hood trauma.
As a teen she acted out occasionally in outbursts but for the most part was calm. She kept herself together the best she could. When she was totally falling apart she internalized it, as much as could be done. After graduating high school she got a job working at a fast food chain and put her self through a community college, again off and on seeing various psychologists and psychiatrists. After that she took out loans for college. She graduated with a degree in Literature.
After that she started seeing doctors pretty regularly. As stable as she could.
He had come into her life two months earlier. At that time, she was just pulling her life back together. She had found some medication that was finally keeping her stable. She was able to hold a job, editing letters and other paperwork for a local lawyer’s office. Things were still tough and she was still a wreck, but she was finally getting things together.
He was weird and perfect. He never graduated from any school but was incredibly knowledgeable, he knew how to hold her. He couldn’t comfort her perfectly, but he could comfort her in such a way that, she though maybe no one else could.
She cried everyday, and he didn’t care. When she rolled over the thought of the myriad of prescriptions she took, there was always a duality there. Are these things destroying me? Are they taking my personality away. Can I live without them? What do they really do to me? She fought these thoughts off mostly with how well she was doing, at this moment. That it had in fact been the medication that was keeping her “stable” and alive.
On several occasions he expressed he understood the nature of her, back and forth hatred of the medicine’s she took. He would even try to organize side effect charts and possible effects, and suggestions for the doctors. He only did this when he thought she might actually be receptive to these sorts of conversations, which was rarely.
They would talk deeply about Kerouac deeply, something they both enjoyed. Sometimes Faulkner and Plath, more of her favorites. Middle of the road, were things like J D Salinger. But when it was his turn it always turned to Burroughs or Bukowski, though she didn’t like the lowbrow styles, she enjoyed his passion.
Most of the time she didn’t want to talk. But she did want to hear, and not just background noise from a tv or a radio, but something real. He picked up this early on in their relationship(?). He would talk about Aristotle, and his criticism’s thereof, never once siting his sexism or political incorrectness. He spoke about Socrates as a crazy schizophrenic. When they were both feeling particularly morbid he would talk about Mengele’s attempts to change the eye color’s of “patients” by injecting chemical’s into them. He spoke about Hadrian’s wall, and the appalachian trail. About how Estonia was full of hacker children
She knew he had never left the country, and detested hiking. She had never seen him read a book. He worked at a local grocery store stocking shelves.
As far as he knew her only living relative she kept in contact was her sister. They rarely talked and when he overheard the conversations, they sounded more like check ups.
“Are you taking your medication”
“Of Course”
“Are you ok”
“You know how I am”
“I just want you to be ok.”
A few days after that phone call they were walking down the sidewalk. A mangy but somewhat adorable puppy approached them, he looked down at it and said, “Hey little guy, where are you from?”
She responded, “Don’t end a sentence in a preposition.”
He chuckled “So what do you have a copy of Strunk and White under your bed?”
“Quit it, quit it, quit it” she screamed.
“What?”
“You never went to college, you shouldn’t say things like that.”
“…I’m sorry, I uh…”
“Nevermind, just nevermind” she screamed and ran off.
He was confused, but decided the best action was to let her cool off, he would call her later tonight.
Later that night he made the phone call…She didn’t answer, he was concerned.
He hadn’t heard from her by the next day, after completing his shift he headed over to her apartment. He knocked, no answer. He slipped his debit card in the door, jiggled the handle until he could open it. There was no sign of her. He went to the bathroom to wash his face, and that’s where she was. Wrists and throat slit by a double edged razor. He called 911 as though it would do any good.
He and her sister, were the only attendees at the funeral. Her sister asked who he was. He said “I think I a..was her boyfriend.”
“Why did she do it?”
“I don’t know, there was a note”
He handed it to her, it said:
“He’s not real.
I’m crazy.”