To: yikes!izzy
Date: Wednesday, March 14—5:11 PM
Subject: empty
Dear Isabel,
I’m writing because it’s the only thing I know how to do. My fingers type with the blind faith that you are there, even though I know you’re not. And maybe these words have become something more than emails; maybe they are a kind of journal. Writing to you is like writing to another piece of myself.
You are in the hospital. You’re lying in a foreign bed somewhere, your insides scraped raw from the charcoal the doctors made you drink to clean you out. The bottle of pills that was supposed to make you better became your weapon. The medicine became poison.
I came to the hospital but they wouldn’t let me see you. I’m not family and you were still too fragile. I would have waited forever, but your mother sent me home, said there’s not much I can do for you just sitting there. So I left, but not until after she held onto me until I couldn’t breathe. I could feel her shudder as she wept. She said “thank you” in a voice so low it almost didn’t sound human. Maybe mothers are the only people capable of making that sound. Our first meeting, and already we know each other too well.
So I’m at home, trying not to obsess, trying to let my mom think she’s comforting me. Your mother has been calling regularly to give updates. I am trying to watch TV, but all I can see is a hospital drama starring you and your family. Your mother in constant vigil by your side. Your dad pacing the hall, beating himself up for finally going back to work and leaving you home alone that day. Your sister and Karen holding each other tight, praying to not lose their child’s only aunt.
Mom says tomorrow you’re going to the psych ward. You will be stabilized by then, filled up with fluids, caught up on sleep, your physical body in some sort of state resembling normal. But what about the rest of you? Are you going to be so heavily medicated you become someone else? Are they going to turn you into a zombie to save you? I don’t want to picture you with blank eyes and a drooling mouth, imprisoned in some chlorine-smelling, fluorescent-lit dungeon. Mom says she’s familiar with where you’re staying, she knows some of the staff, and she’s confident they’re taking good care of you. When I picture you, it’s with your hair wild, laughing, a deep red sunset and evergreens behind you. The memory smells like pine needles and salt water. Not like a hospital. Not like disinfectant and sick people. But I’ll take what I can get. It’s better you’re there than nowhere at all.
It seems like I should be feeling differently than I do. When someone you love tries to kill themselves, there must be some protocol of grieving and fear. Maybe I’m in shock. Maybe I’ve used up all my pain already as I’ve read and reread the emails that tell the story of your unraveling. Maybe this is something I was expecting deep down, something I had unconsciously prepared for. Is it wrong for me to feel relieved? Am I a monster for feeling grateful that they finally caught you, that you’re trapped and being watched so you can’t hurt yourself anymore? What else could have been done?
Maybe freedom and safety will always be at war with each other, and maybe one day freedom will win. Maybe someday you can have it back, maybe someday soon, but right now it seems irrelevant. Freedom is the least of your concerns. I’m glad you’re there, Isabel. I’m glad you’re getting a break from holding the world on your shoulders, even if it probably feels like prison.
After all this time trying to save you, maybe I finally have. Maybe I’m the reason you’re in there instead of a casket. I wonder if I’m supposed to feel proud of that. Should I pat myself on the back for calling your mom after reading your last email? Is it because of me that she called 911 and rushed home from work? What if she had picked up my message ten minutes later? An hour? What if those pills had more time to do their damage? I try not to think of these things, but I can’t help it. What if I hadn’t called at all? Maybe you hate me for it now, but I’m counting on you being glad someday. You’ll feel better and all of this will seem like a sad mistake, and you’ll look into my eyes and tell me how grateful you are to have had another chance.
Love,
Connor