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.