“Um, Jordan, do you need to talk?” Will’s British accent says calmly as my mother closes the door to her bedroom. I subtly take a breath, then walk towards him, sitting down on the couch at his feet.

“I don’t know Will- I don’t know what’s going on with me.”

“Wait- you can’t wake yourself up? You’re aware?”

“Yeah… I don’t know what happens.”

“I think I’ve actually heard of that- Lucid Dreaming?” Will blatantly asks, biting his lip.

“ I knew that I could lucidly dream, but normally that includes being aware and able to control your dreams. Not have no control but be aware.”

“Well… tomorrow, before I leave,” I forgot he was leaving tomorrow… “We’re taking you to see a therapist and try to get you past this. All right?”

My voice cracks as I reassure, “A-all right.” And at that moment, I really didn't know what to feel, mainly due to my own personality overtaking all my emotions. Normally, I'm a really happy-go-lucky guy, but at this moment―and for the past few months―I felt anything but. I hated this. I really did, and I couldn't do anything about it due to my mind being completely...uncontrollable.

As said in John Green's The Fault In Our Stars, the world is not a wish granting factory. I can forgive it, though, since never is every wish granted. It's reality. No one can ever have everything they've ever wanted- well, well, with the exception of those billionaires you see on TV.

I started back to my room and Will said in a reassuring and promising tone, "We're taking you to a therapist tomorrow morning." I only shook my head to myself as I closed my bedroom door. Throwing myself onto my bed, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. A line, though, which appears that it would be from a song, inhabits in my thoughts.

"He’s living a good life, yet unsure of what he's going through."

Oh, wasn’t that the truth.

The whole night was spent with myself on video chat with Weston, mainly because he normally worked the night shift at work and had just gotten home. We talked about a lot of things that ranged from relationships to mental illnesses to― my own problems. He said he had recognized that I was having troubles being myself, being normal, over the few days he was out here, but he didn’t say anything because he felt it would be inconsiderate and awkward to bring it up.

No one has ever known this, but not all of my past was candy and smiles. I had severe depression from around seventh to ninth grade, and I was that kid that people would call “Emo.” I was that kid that sat at the back of the class, that kid with no friends, that kid who would get a moan out of anyone who didn’t get a partner for a project and was paired with me. I was that kid.

I started to tell Weston about this, and he understood, and started explaining that he had a bit of slight depression and mild anxiety in high school, and I felt more of a connection between us. Once we both let words describing our past mentalities exit our mouths, I guarantee we were ten times closer than we were just five minutes before. We both understood how it felt.

But I’m unsure if he legitimately knew how I felt.

Not only being that “Emo” kid in the class, black colored hair swooped to the side, going over at least one of my eyes, who wore eyeliner underneath the eyes and pale lipstick, who would do anything to go unnoticed, who would only listen to “Screamo”, as the called it; I wouldn’t go a day without hearing the words, “Why don’t you kill yourself already?”

“You’re a waste of space.”

“Go die in a hole.”

“Slash your wrists and hang yourself, man! It’s for the better of this Earth.”

That’s all I heard for three long years, the longest three years of my life.

Now that I think about it, this is probably why I sleepwalk in the first place. Because those thoughts, those words from kids whose names I can barely remember now, keep echoing in my mind. Every night. I never think too hard about it, though, but now I have a good perspective on why I do what I do.

And quite honestly, I had tried self harming before, but it didn’t go as planned and ended with myself having a huge burn mark on my elbow. One that’s barely visible, but still there. For quite a while, too, I had ended up starving myself. I’m so skinny now due to that. It sucks.

It was around 8 AM when I heard a knock on my door, who I assumed to be Will, and was proven correct when I opened the door to reveal himself standing there in front of me, his suitcase in his hand and a breakfast burrito in the other.

“We have to go now, because my flight gets here around noon. Let’s get this done, okay?”

“Okay.” I  say, scrambling to grab my bookbag which contained a couple of my schoolbooks and a sketch pad. I walked behind Will for some time when I realized that we were only going to an old warehouse down the road. I knew that it was inhabited by something, I just didn’t expect it to be for a therapist.

“Doctor Rebecca Langland, PhD.” Will says, opening the door to the rooms where Dr. Langland resided during work hours. “I talked to her not ten minutes ago, she sounds really kind and understanding. I think it will be fine, Jordan.”

I only sigh as I hear, “Hello?” come from the back of the secretary office. Someone peeks through the glass that separates the mental patients from said secretaries and I see a woman in a classical doctor’s coat. She smiles as Will says, “Jordan’s here to talk through some things with you, Doctor.”

“Of course―” she pauses, looks at me, then Will, and continues, “You’re Will, correct?” She says, pointing towards Will.

“Yes, this is who you’ll be seeing today,” he says, poking my arm a bit. He breaks a smile, and curl my lips at the tips to show that I knew he was joking around.

“Alright, Jordan, you can come through the door on your left and meet me in the third office.”

I enter through said door and follow her through the hall into the third office, and she shuts the door behind us. She looks at me, then the chair, and I get the message that she wants me to sit. So I do.

“Will mentioned insomnia, sleepwalking, and… suicidal tendencies.”

“Yes.” I say, swallowing whatever saliva was sticking in my mouth. It made me nervous to talk to a complete stranger about my mentalities.

“And do you have any ideas where these suicidal tendencies may have originated?”


“No, not really, no. That’s why I’m really confused about it.”

“Okay… what about your insomnia, or sleepwalking?” She asked, sitting down in the seat next to mine.

“Recently I just haven’t been able to sleep as well as I used to , and since eleventh grade I’ve had sleepwalking problems, and just recently did it decide to…” I paused to choose my words, “transform, into attempts of suicide.”

“Are you sure that there was no point in your life that could have influenced these tendencies?”

“Uhm…” I thought hard about it for another minute or so until I said, “Well, it could possibly be my depressed phase from like seventh to ninth grade.”

“That’s most likely it. Now, would you like to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.”

Sleepwalking // xBayani [ON HOLD]Read this story for FREE!