Clandestine Confessions

“Hello, this is J. I received a missed call from you.”
–
It was July 12th, 2013. Around 9am. The brightest summer morning – the sun touching every square inch of my dad’s office where I was sitting at the desk publishing my daily blog.
I had received a phone call from an unknown number minutes before.
I let it go to voicemail, assuming it was a spam call.
It is because of that one unanswered call I now pick up for every single one…
–
“Hello, I am trying to reach J. This is C’s aunt. Can you give me a call back when you have a moment? Thank you.”
I immediately called back.
This was not normal.
Ring ring…
“Please God. Please no.”
Ring ring…
“She has to be okay.”
Ring ring…
It was the longest five seconds of my life.
“Hello J. Thank you for returning my call. I am sorry to tell you that C has died and you were the last person she was texting.”
It was said without emotion. As if reading from a script. The voice of someone who has run out of tears to cry.
I know that cadence well.
–
There are three moments in my life so far where time has stood still.
Two that spoke death.
One that spoke life.
This was the first of the former.
–
I watched as the clouds abruptly rolled in with each word she spoke, robbing the room of its light.
The sky would weep with me for the next three days.
“Due to the circumstances surrounding her death, I need to know what you two discussed.”
I knew what that meant without her needing to elaborate further.
“I sent her a photo,” I was trying so hard to keep my composure. “It was of a drink we had in treatment.” Why were these my final words to her…? “It had some slogan with it that seemed so ironic.” I could have done more…“I sent it hoping it would give her a laugh.” She deserved better…“But I never heard back.” I should have known…
There was a pause.
“And she never alluded to anything to you?”
“I mean….we always were talking about our emotions. We kept extremely open about our struggles with one another. I knew she was in a darker place, but she assured me she would be okay…”
–
We were supposed to be in Florida together that week.
Where my parents and sister were at the moment.
The plan was the beach and Disney World and find two cute men who were friends.
And we would then be in one another’s wedding.
And then buy houses near one another in Florida.
And then raise our kids to be the best of friends.
And take family vacations together.
I built my future around her – more than I had anyone else in my life.
And she would be the last person with who I would ever do that.
For it created a deep ocean of grief I vowed to never dive into again – to not only lose the person but every dream their presence represented.
A perpetual sorrow with every milestone you reach without them.
–
A month before the trip she told me she no longer could go…. “J, I cannot let you see me like this. I hate who I have become.”
Based on our conversations in recent weeks, I could sense it was coming.
Her response time was getting longer.
The sadness in her voice was getting heavier.
“I am not how you met me. Not even close. I am so ashamed. And I do not know how to make it stop.”
She was talking about her body…and that right there will never not shatter my heart.
–
She was beautiful – stunningly so – felt it from the second I first caught a glimpse of her.
She was walking to the nurse’s station, the hours long intake finally completed.
I was in the common room observing the world upside down.
Twice a day for 20 minutes I would have to lay in my wheelchair with the back tilted – feet in the air and head close to the ground.
They never told me why nor did I care to ask…transparently speaking, I was too mad at my fate to care about anything.
“Another Cinderella Story” was playing on the TV – a demand by a couple of the teenage patients to feed their obsession of Selena Gomez.
Not because of her talent but because of her body. She was “goals” and their minds were on a quest to obsess…they made that known.
I laid their infuriated by the ignorance of the staff… “how are they not seeing what is happening?!”
It would become a reoccurring theme throughout those few weeks.
But if I dared try to help, I would be told time and time again to “focus on my healing.”
Being forced to watch those around me fall deeper into the demise of their own.
My imposed silence eventually culminated to me completely snapping at the staff right before transferring to another facility.
Contrary to my calm demeanor, I do have a breaking point. Especially when it comes to another’s opportunity to escape the hell of mental illness.
–
C glanced my way. I knew she was scoping out the scene. We all did it…
She gave a slight smile – even her meekest could ignite life in the deadest of scenarios.
I offered one back.
–
I would see her sporadically for the next week.
Unfortunately, I would know the sound of her screams before that of her voice.
There was one particular afternoon, now painfully etched in my mind, when her cries echoed throughout the entire unit.
I sat on the couch clutching my wordsearch book in tears for her – this woman with who I had yet to even share a word.
My silent treatment with God received a brief hiatus as I begged Him to set her free, pleaded with Him to make them take their hands off of her.
Thirty minutes passed before all went eerily quiet.
And I can tell you with great certainty it was not from an answered prayer.
There were other means deployed to silence us.
And with that knowledge, it would be 9 more months before I would ever converse with God again…
But only one more day before I would get the privilege to share a conversation with her.