Descent

I thought a year was long enough. I mean, it’s not like I killed him. At least, not on purpose. Sort of.

Once he died, I packed up my bags and left. Let me warn you right now, it’s not pleasant story. I did what I thought was right and staying there just wasn’t an option.

After it happened, I spent a year traveling the country alone. I thought that the farther away I got, the easier it would be. I was sure that the more state lines that I crossed it would make it easier to forget.

Seems simple, right?

Ok, maybe “left” isn’t quite the right word. “Vanished” is probably more accurate. I know I'm crazy. Don't tell me I'm not, because I am. I really lost it under all of the pressure.

I tried to stay. I tried to make things right. I couldn’t, so I left.

I passed through dozens of little sleepy hamlets and enjoyed the bustle of some big glowing cities. I saw deserts, oceans, and even tried skiing in the snow for the first time. I was living free.

I enjoyed myself out there on the open road. Well, maybe not enjoyed, per se. More like I distracted myself out there. The reason for my departure was constantly invading my thoughts. Harsh voices in my head bickered constantly, locked in a furious battle that could not be won.

I am not sure of the precise moment that I realized I was descending into lunacy. I am absolutely positive that the voices that screamed at me incessantly were unanimously right. They were, after all, in complete agreement on just one thought: I am crazy.

A few months ago, I made up my mind to go home. I pointed my truck into the southern sky and started driving. My inner demons were at war over the decision to return, occasionally pulling me off course. I made a few enjoyable side trips over the next several weeks.

Kinda like I’m “enjoying” myself sitting on this beach in North Carolina right now. But I digress; I will get to that in just a bit.

Recurrent panic attacks became a daily way of life; frequently pulling over to wait out the inevitable moments of terror that reduced me to a sobbing mess. I soon grew weary as my battle entrenched mind relentlessly struggled with itself.

I finally beat the demons and eventually pulled into town. I absently navigated the familiar streets. At long last, I made it to my own driveway.

I rang the bell and waited for it to open. Nothing. Surely, it must have been out of order. I looked around and noticed the untrimmed bushes and shaggy lawn in need of serious attention.

I pounded on the door. My heart was beating so loudly that I was sure the neighbors could hear it. A moment passed and the thumping in my ears grew stronger. For a split second, I thought maybe I had forgotten to stop knocking on the door. As I looked down to assure myself that my hand wasn’t still moving the door silently opened. The woman standing looked at me with mixed emotions over her face.

My homecoming wasn’t quite was I had expected. Over the next few months, my mother was constantly in tears. My kid sister adamantly refused to speak to me. She barely made eye contact with me. Her expression was of deep rage … or maybe sadness? I don’t know. Either way, it killed me.

I lived in my old room. I tried so hard to resume my life before the accident. I tried to act like everything was going to be okay.

Except I knew that it was not okay.

Everyone looked at me differently. I heard the encouraging words that they were saying, but I didn’t believe them.

It was my fault that he died. I lost control of the car and wrecked it in a fiery crash. It didn’t matter that the roads were slick. Nothing mattered, except…

It. Was. My. Fault.

Wait… I wasn’t driving. I don’t even think I was there.

I don’t know. When I close my eyes, I can see the wreckage. I can still feel the spectacular heat from the flames devouring the engine compartment. I can smell the burning plastic filling my nostrils with thick acrid smoke.

And yet, I distinctly remember getting the call late at night to tell me there had been an accident. I clearly remember sitting at the kitchen table studying a textbook. I can see the notes I made in the margins as reminders to myself. I remember packing up my kid sister in a panic and rushing to the hospital an hour away.

It’s a peculiar feeling to know that your own mind is slowly consuming itself. To be consciously aware that you are slowly going crazy, but powerless to stop it.

I know this is my problem. I know it's in my head.

I mean, I know what's going on in my head. And I know the thoughts that I'm having. My thoughts are constantly at war with each other. So, I know I'm crazy.

I keep thinking of that ill-fated night. Each time, I seem to “remember” a different version of reality. I am pretty sure I wasn’t there when it happened. I have never been to the spot of the accident, but when I close my eyes, I can see the skid marks on the road. The screams of terror ring though my head.

My mind is punishing me for abandoning them after the incident. For simply vanishing. My family, friends, even my life’s true love. Guilt consumes me. The more I am assured it will be okay, the more certain it never will be.

I didn’t kill him. I know my mind is just playing tricks. Outwardly, I am smiling to show them that I am trying. Deep down inside, I know that I need to mend fences with those who stuck with me.

I grew restless with each passing day. The guilt was so powerful that it ripped me into a million pieces. I am a mere shadow of my former self.

Curiously, the crazy inner voices finally agreed on a second thought: Leave. Again. This time a bit more permanently. Out of sight, I would eventually be forgotten. Forget the fact that I killed him… and in the process destroyed everything that was important to me.

I warned you upfront, this wasn’t a pleasant story. I did what I thought was right and staying wasn’t an option. I convinced myself I was doing this for the people I loved. Once I was gone, then they could finally heal instead of taking care of me.

I was going to leave. I decided on a destination. I felt euphoria. Even the voices in my head started to agree more and more often. I would be free.

So I secretly planned. I wrote them all notes. My mother, my sister, my love. I tried to explain what was in my mind. I knew it was coming out completely crazy. Even my pen laughed at me as I rumpled page after page. So in the end I settled for “I love you. I will never forget you.”

Three notes, each individually addressed. I barely recognized my own handwriting as I dropped them in the mailbox. I knew they would be angry that there was no further explanation. I hoped they would understand. It was my fault, after all.

Forget the fact that I essentially abandoned them. Again. They will move on. They have to recognize that I am crazy and they are better off without me. Right?

So that’s how I ended up on this beach. It’s just a quick stop to rest. By car, I am headed further north. Just a few more hours, I will be there.

But that is, of course, only where my adventure will first begin. I am going where no one will recognize me. Far away.

I have made the decision to keep a journal. That is, after all, what crazy people do, right? Document their madness for posterity? I can only hope that long after my adventure is over, my words will somehow make sense and my motivations will be clear.

So here is where it starts. It’s time to get going. I pull on my shirt and shake the North Carolina sand off my shoes. I take one final look at the ocean; feel the rush of the salt air on my face. I take a deep breath.

And… I leave.

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.