FEAR

I had a sort of breakdown. Okay, right off the bat I’ve failed to tell the truth. My therapist says that until I can accept what happened I can’t begin to process it. So let’s start again.

I suffered a complete nervous breakdown. I find that to be quite a general term, one that encompasses a whole range of symptoms, although in fairness, I seem to tick the majority of the boxes. Anyway, when everything finally came out, when I literally could not carry on anymore under the sheer weight of it, my parents were shocked into action. I was briefly sectioned and began a course of therapy.

Mostly this was just talking, answering questions, seeing where I fell on various scales, completing tests to see just how serious my condition was. But my therapist, Ralph – I didn’t think anyone was really called Ralph so that in itself was an eye opener – suggested I write down my thoughts and feelings relating to the events which led to my breakdown. It could be as structured or random as I wanted he said. Some people like to imagine they’re writing a letter to a friend, others that they’re keeping a diary. Ralph said the purpose was just to get the thoughts on paper.

I was a bit sceptical. After all, I’ve spent literally years desperately trying not to share what happened. But once I picked up the pen, once I’d ‘given myself permission’ as Dr Ralph put it, the contents of my head began to spill out all over the page. I literally couldn’t stop; it was real stream of consciousness stuff, like I was talking to someone over a pint I suppose.

 I’ve made progress, there’s no doubt about it, but the trick seems to be to take each day as it comes. But before I get ahead of myself I’d best bring you up to speed with how I came to be in this state in the first place. To save time I’ll refer you to my therapy journal – Dr Ralph called it that. He asked me to begin anywhere I liked, wherever I felt able. For me, things really began to unravel when I decided to confess.

                           Fantastic Expectations Amazing Revelations

Yesterday, one of my oldest friends was found dead. I hadn’t set eyes on him in almost ten years. My mum heard about it on local radio; died in his sleep on a bench apparently, his body had been there for over twelve hours. He would’ve been twenty-eight next month.

I know it must sound strange to you, I mean if he was such a good mate how come I hadn’t seen him in nearly a decade, right? That’s easy – I haven’t been home in all that time, not really. The fact that I chose to return the day after he died is pure coincidence. This is going to sound harsh, but he’s better off dead, I really believe that.

So, why the hell have I been away for so long you might well be wondering, and what sort of lunatic thinks it’s for the best if his twenty-seven year old friend is found dead on a bench in a shopping arcade? All in good time, it’s all going to come out now, finally, that’s why I came back. I wanted to tell the story before it surfaced of its own accord. My friend’s death has only given me more reason to do it. If I miss any details I reckon there’s a decent percentage chance you’ll be able to catch the rest in the papers or on the news.

That’s why I’m home you see, to confess, if for no other reason than to perhaps allow me to sleep without the aid of pills and alcohol. Almost ten years ago a girl disappeared without trace. I know where she is, my dead friend knew too, because we killed her.

God, it feels so…terrifying but at the same time liberating to admit that at long last. My pen hovered over the page for almost a minute before I wrote that sentence. We killed her. Okay, now straight away you’re judging me. Killer. Murderer. Psychopath. Well, yeah, I suppose I'm all of those things but if you really want to start using labels allow me to suggest a few alternatives. Coward, liar or drunkard perhaps?