Save Me

Chapter Twenty-Two

"You want to what?" she asked calmly.

"I want to drop out," I told her, my personal tutor. She was an assigned member of faculty who's job it was to ensure that all was going well with my studies. She sat behind her desk in a tiny office at the end of a long, plain corridor in the School of History on campus.

"Why?" she asked, her voice softly berating, tiptoeing around my feelings.

"Personal reasons." I looked around the office briefly, trying to fill the silence in the room. I never liked her, but not because she was a bad person, or a good person - she was just an uninteresting person.

"Okay," she said slowly. "But I think you're making a mistake."

"I'm sure I'm not," I replied.

"Your attendance could be better, but your grades are exemplary. It would be a mistake to drop out now," she urged.

"It was a mistake coming to university at all," I admitted.

"What's wrong?" she asked, looking concerned. "If you're having any issues, you can speak to me, or make an appointment with Student Services and speak with a therapist. They're very good with grief or mental illness."

"I don't like talking about my problems," I said plainly. "I just want to drop out."

She sighed. "Very well. I'll get you the forms to fill in, if you hand them into the school office before 4:00, I'll email all the right people and get it sorted."

"Okay. Good." I stood up and turned to leave.

"I do think you're making the wrong decision."

"I don't really care."

So like that, I left university. And in the moment, I didn't care, or I told myself as much, over and over. To some people, it might have seemed like a drastic, life-changing decision, but I told myself I couldn't stay. I told myself I had to get out, to vanish someplace new, maybe even start again.

Once I left my tutor's office, I felt a sense of relief suddenly flush over me, like a weight was lifted from my shoulders. I breathed in deep in the empty corridor, my lungs expanding and deflating, and I felt slightly comforted by it. At least I was still alive, I told myself; at least I was somewhat sound of mind and body, young, healthy, and well-off - who was I to complain?

I knew the only way to get better was to tell myself I was okay, to keep myself busy, to stop my thoughts from sinking deep into the dark paradise of my mind, where my thoughts would dance around in a repetitive circle, from one bad memory to another, from one nightmare to another, unable to escape, only sinking deeper. Losing yourself to your own worst thoughts was a slippery slope, like drowning in quicksand. You had to get out fast, or you'd lose. That was usually how I'd get myself in too deep, where I'd reach some strange depressive state and I couldn't stop the tears, the fury, and I'd lose all rational thought.

By now, I had spent years trying to perfect the art of getting by, when your own head gets you down. But I was never that great at getting by. I tried my hardest to focus on my happy memories to overcome it. I remembered my mother, who was a perfect parent by every fucking standard, one of the few people I was sure that loved me unconditionally. I remembered how strongly she would worry about me, all the small things she did that made my earliest childhood memories some of the happiest I could remember. The way she made hot chocolate, the fabric softener she used on all the laundry, the loving words taken for granted, all the silly things that you never imagined yourself remembering, and surprising yourself when you do.