Conversations with Me

Content note: This piece explores themes of depression and suicidal thoughts in a fictional context. Please take care while reading.

"Things really took a turn when you dyed your hair jet black," I said.

"They turned before that."

"When?" I persisted.

"This was always me." 

I heard the shakiness in the voice. I could feel their anxiety so fully. How could I empathize this completely? Never mind that. I dug my heels in. 

"You wrote poetry before."

"I wasn't really a poet though. I was a wannabe poet."

"I liked your poems."

The shaking came next. The breaths grew shallow. Red flush to the face.

"If you think I can just be that unstable loser I once was—"

Wait. 

The "I"... wasn't me... 

Someone else was talking to me—

Questioning me.

I looked around the office and out the window at the sprawling San Francisco skyline. I had built a career here. I had money. I had a family. 

But now I was having these mental breakdowns where someone was talking to me. Some... friend? Could it be a friend if I detested their feedback 90% of the time? 

I couldn't shake the feeling that I was losing my grip on reality. I furiously jumped into Outlook and responded to some bullshit email, trying to regain control: 

"Hi Jared, thank you for your email. I can see why you thought Alex was ignoring your request..."

Oh no. The voice was coming back. The soul attached to the voice, more humanoid. 

He had a swaggy look with this unkempt hair, beer belly and carefree attitude. 

"Going full corporate with that email reply, huh?"

"This is the real me. Or at least the me that works."

"And how well is it working? Really? Don't run from this discomfort. Sit with it. Sit with me."

His arms and legs now took shape and I saw his pants with holes in them. His t-shirt displaying that T-Rex from Toy Story on the front. 

"You're right. You got me."

"Don't agree with me when you don't mean it. You can't reverse psychology my presence away," he said. 

Hey. This is progress, I thought. I'm seeing myself and him as two distinct voices and persons. 

I wanted to shove him out the window, but I knew he wasn't really there. I could jump out the window though and be rid of him forever. I had peaked in life. There were no more goals to hit. Why not?

The kids had jobs, the husband would be well taken care of. The job could be replaced. 

"You matter," he said. He touched me. 

So I could throw him out the window, I thought. He has enough physical form for me to interact with now.

But now he was saying something nice. It wasn't exactly hitting though, and I knew why. I was self-aware enough to know my whole identity was wrapped up in my accomplishments. And that any notion of value outside of productivity was childish to me. 

I drifted. I opened the cupboard and raised the bottle to my lips. Just habit.

I picked up a notebook and started writing. I’m still not sure if it’s a suicide note or not.

Maybe it isn’t.

Maybe it’s just a person trying to remember how to speak.

I keep writing.

Maybe it's a poem.