Erasing the Evidence

   I was there to fix the holes in the walls. The fist sized hole in the door, and the large ones above the bed. It was an all too familiar scene. It could’ve been my room growing up. The room of an angry teenage boy in the suburbs. I couldn’t tell exactly how old he was just by looking at his stuff, but it seemed like he was a late teen. The room didn’t feel lived in though and I speculated about where the boy was. There were no sheets on the bed, no random scraps of living dropped from pockets and scattered about the floor. The tv was unplugged, the closet full of yearbooks and boardgames and clothes. He must be off at one of those psychiatric hospitals or institutional learning facilities like I got shipped off to as a teen. Or maybe he was off at college and the parents wanted to fix things up while he was gone.

I was to change the color from a dark, dark blue to a lighter, soothing color, Azure Snow. Perhaps it will help him when he gets home. Maybe one day he and his parents will share a laugh about how silly he was to think that his high school world was so huge and such a big deal. He’ll feel silly that he acted out, just like I do.

   I remember bursts of rage. I remember being mad at god and my parents and the system. I just wanted to be left alone. I wanted to create things and enjoy my friends, but I felt stifled. I felt like they wanted to wrench every bit of creativity out of me and mold me into nothing more than a wage earner. I felt like they were disappointed that I wasn’t on the fast track to doctor/lawyer/businessman. I felt like they didn’t believe me that I could be musician/actor/filmmaker. I knew what I wanted and it had nothing to do with shut up and obey. So I lashed, and I punched holes in the walls and I did drugs and I was reckless. And luckily, I made it through, but a lot of my friends didn’t. And now I laugh about it with my mom, and while I’m not setting the world on fire, I used their lack of faith in me as a fire to achieve, to some degree everything that I wanted to do. I showed them they were wrong, and it feels good. Real fucking good.

   The man of the house came upstairs to tell me how happy he was with my work. He showed me work that he had done around the house and he was proud of. And then he told me how his son had shot himself. He told me that he’d do anything to let his son know that he loved him. And the man broke down in front of me. He burst at the seams with his grief. A grown man. A complete stranger.

   I wanted to tell him that although, I could never understand what it was like to lose a child, that I had lost many friends like that. I wanted to tell him about my own struggles with depression. I wanted to tell him that I understood what it’s like to have a hole in the middle of your chest that you can’t think your way out of. I wanted to tell him that I know what it’s like to make a list of all the things that you love and look at it and understand in your mind, but to still have that feeling of emptiness on a soul level. Instead I just quietly said I was sorry and went back to my job, which was erasing the evidence of his child’s rage. They didn’t want to remember this angry, misunderstood boy. They wanted to remember the sweet child they had before the darkness sunk in. I was just there to erase some of the evidence.

   

    I thought about all the people I knew that checked out early. Mike Murphree, Alec Horgan, Grant Fey, Justin Hill, Jason Barganier, Shane and Shawn, Emily from high school, Big E.  I thought about all the people that killed themselves with drugs: Bob and Marshall, Tony, Kai, Dario, Matt Brown. I know there’s no point in thinking that you could do more for those people. Everyone has their own path, and you can only meet someone halfway.

   I guess I’m lucky and the depression I deal with is pretty mild. As a kid, I denied its existence. As an adult, I just quietly plow through the worst parts. Sometimes it gets really bad, almost crippling. Two years ago I just laid on my couch, chain smoking with a full ashtray on my chest, not wanting to go to work. But I went to some therapy and I plunged myself in to some creative projects and I came out the other end better than before. But I’m always aware that the pendulum will swing back one day. I’m always bracing myself for the creature to rear it’s ugly head, and I grasp and I strive to shore myself up and hope that I’m growing and that I’ll be better prepared. I’m lucky that my desire to prove everyone who didn’t believe in me with my success is stronger than my depression. Most people aren’t so lucky.

   The father’s words have been ringing in my head since I heard them. That he just wished he could let his son know how much he loved him. I guess we’re all guilty of not saying it enough. Fuck what I said earlier. Tell everyone you give a shit about as often as you can.