search instagram arrow-down

PART 2 of The Sitting Series

The text read,

“How does it feel now?”

How does what feel now, I thought to myself, confused by the question. How does the acid feel now? What if she (the texter) knows that I’m on acid. I looked around the room. It was a small one bedroom that felt crowded with four people in it (Myself, Rene, Erron and Becca). I was huddled into a ball in the corner of the room not sure how to process what I was looking at. I re-read the texts that I had sent before that one but couldn’t find any reason in that response. How does it feel now? I repeated to myself in my head. She knows, I don’t know how she knows but she knows. What if I told her? What if I told her and I just can’t see the message because…because I haven’t sent it yet. At that point, I started to panic. I looked up again, this time desperate for some comfort from anyone in the room.

“He wasn’t comforting her Rene. He was her dealer.” Erron said.

“Why would her dealer just be standing there with her? That doesn’t make any sense.” Rene replied.

The argument that they were having was about a woman and a man we passed on our way to the 7-11. The woman they were arguing about was keeled over on the sidewalk, her head looking down at the ground which made her hair fall over her face. Next to her, a man was standing upright with his hands in his pockets. It was clear they were together because of how close they were to each other physically. Ignoring their closeness, it seemed like they didn’t know each other at all; him looking out at nothing and her at the ground.

“You don’t know he could have just been like a person that saw someone that needed help.”

“Rene-”

“He could have been a security guard.” Rene interrupted.

The problem with that hypothesis is that on our way back from the 7-11, the actual security guard for the building was telling both the man and woman they had to get away from the building.

I wasn’t in the headspace for an argument, so instead of joining in, I grabbed my notebook and sketched what we (I) had seen.

“This is what it looked like.” I said, flipping the notebook over so everyone could see the sketch. The sad part is, I really showed it to everyone in the room expecting that they’d look at it and say,

“Oh, well now that we saw that we all know what the truth is.”

Instead, everyone laughed, including me. That might have been a good time to mention the text from the future, but I decided against it. I was worried time travel was something that could spark another argument and with that would come unnecessary chaos. Suddenly, I became very anxious about the people in the rooms next to the one we were in hearing us and so I started shushing everyone in the room if they raised their voice mid-argument.

When the room felt settled, I returned to my notebook. This time I wrote what I really wanted to be an amazing poem. I thought the nonsense I put on the page was so important that I shushed everyone in the room again and asked them in a very loud whisper,

“Can I read you something?”

“Of course.” Rene said.

“I’d love to hear it.” Erron said.

I read it out loud, trying to do so with enough focus and intent that it would sound like the most important piece of writing in the world.

When I finished, the room was quiet. I looked up at Erron as he choked up and said to me,

            “That was beautiful.”

            Then, Rene put his hand on my back and with misty eyes said,

            “Wow, that was really powerful.”

            All I wanted to do was cry. The poem wasn’t good, it was an attempt to create a bigger feeling of importance from my trip. I realize now that the words on the paper could have been the worst thing that anyone had ever read, but even if they were, Rene and Erron would have shown the same love and support.

            I had found the comfort I was looking for earlier. That comfort drew me to a deeper reflection on not just where I was on that night, but where I had been on the days leading up to it. A week before, I was sitting on a bed in a mental health facility after having told a doctor that I wanted to end my life.

Leave a Reply
Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: