The Note

My eyes were fixed on the paper. The words cut through me.

How far I've fallen. I don't think I can do this anymore...

The note shook slightly in my hands as I read it through again.

My life is such a mess. I'm such a mess.

The harried memories came back to me of the devastating accident, constant fighting, aspirations being scattered out of reach, and his dreams splintering as the threads of his life irreversibly unraveled. Each painful blow eventually led to his sudden quiet departure in the middle of the night and my eventual receipt of the note that I clutched unsteadily in front of me now.

I feel like such a fool. Like a complete idiot. And, I don't want to be doing this to you. Please don't hate me, but you do have every right to.

It wasn't his fault. It all happened so quickly. It started on an frozen black December night. The slick roads were treacherous as the car careened uncontrolled, ultimately rolling over multiple times before finally coming to a stop. Panicked red lights and shrill sirens filled the dark icy air. The smashed wreckage was furiously cut apart and two barely alive occupants were hurriedly removed. The couple remained comatose for weeks afterward.

Their dutiful son moved without delay into his parents home to take care of his young sister. In the following days, he was always strong for her; offering encouraging words as he prepared hot meals for her before and after school.

As the holidays approached, he tried to make life as normal as possible for his sister. He took charge, decorated the house and did the holiday shopping. Outwardly, he was confident and assuring to his family; the solid rock his aunts, uncles, and grandparents could could depend on for strength.

Only I knew the truth behind his confident facade. Fear and overwhelming anxiety crushed his soul. He called me more and more frequently. He wept openly. He drew strength from our friendship.

He was in the midst of preparing a great Christmas feast for his extended family when the phone rang. He stomach churned as he saw it was the hospital. He hesitantly answered.

A Christmas miracle indeed, his mother had awoken from her coma. Her body was shattered and her memory was foggy, but he was told it would heal. Soon enough, under the watchful eye of a nurse, she was moved home. She couldn't move from bed and required around the clock care.

His father was not so fortunate. He suffered heart failure and died days later without ever waking. The funeral took its toll.

He tried desperately to start moving his life to what would be the new normal. He went back to medical school. He cared for his sister and his mother. He cooked days worth of meals late into the night so that there would always be something for them to eat. He walked the dog. He called me frequently. He tried to be optimistic. He tried to forget.

In the coming weeks, I could hear the pain in his voice when he would tell me about the arguments with his mother. She struggled with her own emotions and loss over her broken family. She obviously disapproved with the way he handled his pain, his attempts to move forward. He tried hard to gratify her. With each argument, her words became more vicious and shameful.

The last argument was a turning point. He finally yelled back. In tears, she slammed the door closed. He stormed out out of the house. She swallowed hundreds of pills. She was discovered hours later and rushed to the hospital.

I had just had enough. I couldn’t take it anymore. I was quite literally on the brink of going insane. I found myself thinking things that I never would have thought before in my life. And ultimately the thing that pushed me over the edge was when I found myself thinking that it might just be easier for me to do the same thing to myself as my mom tried to do to herself. I mean, why not. What did I really have to live for?

The next few days were spent on edge. His family blamed him for the attempt. Guilt burned a hole in a stomach. His conversation with me was becoming more erratic as his thoughts kept him awake at night. He blaming himself. He convinced himself that he was being selfish.

Obviously I was beginning to lose it. And, why shouldn’t I have lost it? I mean, everything that could have gone wrong did, and nothing I tried to do to help myself or anyone else was noticed or appreciated. Instead, people were actually angry with me for things that I had no control over. So add the fact that I was basically being alienated by my family to all of the other things that had happened, and I was basically a beaten down, broken up, shadow of the person that I once was.

In each subsequent conversation with me, he was becoming increasingly irrational. The last time I spoke with him was when he called me late at night. He was weeping hysterically. I did my best to calm him. Eventually his voice took on a peculiar quiet timbre. The conversation was unsettling. After several hours, he was exhausted. So was I. I suggested sleep. I thought he was going to be okay.

So, the last night that I talked to you, I made a decision. I was either going to do what I had been thinking about and end it all or I was going to leave it all behind. That night, I heard a song about this guy who basically has everything in the world go wrong, and he finds himself down to his last dream…to just get away. So, he does. And that’s what I did. At this point, you may think I’m insane.. I mean, everybody thinks about doing that, but who actually does it. So, I left.

Until now, that was the last I had heard from him. My attempts to contact him were unsuccessful. As the days turned into weeks and months, I found myself growing more and more ill at ease.

Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am insane. But I couldn’t end my life…not after how angry I got with my mom for even trying. Before, I could blame it on everything that had happened.

But that was then. Now, it really is all my fault for just up and leaving rather than facing things the way I should have.

Thoughts of the worst ran through my head. I called hospitals with no luck. I read obituaries. I tried to contact his family. I came up empty handed every time. I continued to try.

Abandoning my efforts was not an option for me. Giving up would have been like reading a thousand page book and closing it before seeing the last chapter, never knowing how it would end.

I hate myself for this. I hate myself for everything I've done to you and to us. I am completely worthless.

It has been almost a year since I received the note. I have not come across a trace in all that time. He'd vanished completely.

The paper its written on has become faded and wrinkled. I have read it a hundred times looking for a reason to be hopeful. Instead, tremendous guilt rushes through me as I am reminded that I was the last person to whom he spoke.

With each day that passes, the book closes a little more. I may never find out what happened, or be able to positively influence the ending. I am not okay with that possibility. Regardless, I will keep trying.

Maybe I could have prevented whatever happened. Probably not. It's time to take a deep breath and consider the long road ahead.

I put the note back into its envelope and closed the drawer.