i'm aware the timeline is probably messed up a little. shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh :))
heads up - this chapter contains various things that aren't true/are inaccurate
i just finished writing the last 3 chapters (including this one) and heads up: this chapter and the last ones are pretty long but the 29th isn't very long (at all. unless i edit it, which i probably will haha). anyway, enjoy it while it lasts.
ok, so, leave a comment below on what you want me to do with the last two chapters. post one a week from now, and the other a week from then? post them both tomorrow? post them a couple days apart? lemme know what you guys want, because then it'll be over<3
POV: Patrick
March 29, 2013. The day the band convinced me to get on a bunch of medication, right after a show in New Zealand, no less. Brendon played no small role, either. So here we are, April 1st, 2013, heading to a fucking clinic.
Pete's driving, and I'm attempting to breathe evenly. Oh, man, I do not want to do this. But maybe I'll be okay. Maybe I'll get medication, and then I'll feel good.
Or maybe they'll hand me a bottle of pills and I'll swallow every single one of them at once.
I squeeze my eyes shut tight. Don't think that, what the fuck? No. No, no, no. I'm gonna get better. I'm gonna be alright.
Too soon, the car is stopped. Too soon, we're walking in the doors. Being able to sit in the lobby and wait is a small comfort. There's paperwork to be filled out, so I focus on that instead of how anxious I am. Pete nods encouragingly. After I drop the clipboard and papers off with the secretary, I stay in the lobby, staring at the door that the doctor or nurse must come out of.
When they call for me, I am shaking. When they tell Pete it'd be best for him to wait in the lobby, I panic. I swing around to face him, my eyes bulging. His face softens, but he gives me an encouraging smile. I do not want to leave him here.
"Go ahead," he says, almost a whisper. "I'll wait here." All I can do is nod.
When they perform all of the routine checkup inspections, I am numb. When I wait in the room for the doctor, I feel like crying. I sit close to the armrest of the chair, forever wishing Pete was sitting next to me. I clasp my hands together tightly to stop them from shaking, but it doesn't really help.
Then a nurse comes in, and when she opens the door I jump. Why am I so jittery? Calm down. She asks a couple questions -- if I have allergies, if I'm on any other medication, things like that. I tell her no, and do my best to answer the questions. Then she leaves and says the doctor will be in soon. I've forgotten his name already -- or was it a woman? I do not know.
A soft knock on the door. I take a deep breath and wring my right wrist with my left hand.
A woman opens the door -- so it was a woman, then -- and smiles kindly. She has soft brown eyes, a little lighter than Pete's. Her chestnut-colored hair matches. Her smile eases a small knot in my stomach. She seems kind. I notice my fingernails digging into my hands and part them, rubbing my sweaty palms down my legs.
"I'm Doctor Evanson, and you must be Patrick." I nod again.
"Before we get you on any medication, I'm gonna have to ask you a couple questions, is that alright?"
More nodding.
"Have you spoken to a psychiatrist?"
This time, I shake my head. I knew that I might be able to get a better diagnosis from a psychiatrist, but I did not want to deal with the hassle. Maybe I'll consider that if this doesn't work out.
She writes something down on a clipboard.
"That's alright. Do you know what is causing your depression?" I think for a minute. I used to.
"Um, well," I start, but then I realize the answer is rather embarrassing. People were saying some mean stuff. I can't say that, I'm a fucking adult. She seems to notice my discomfort.
"Please be honest. There's absolutely nothing you can tell me that would be embarrassing or make me think less of you, Patrick."
I wish she would stop using my name. She doesn't know me. People do that all the time, use my name to act like they know me when they know nothing. I sit a little taller.
"I had some issues with my body image and self-esteem due to constant put-downs from others. Though, I'm over that and I don't really think about it anymore," the gears start to click into place in my head as I think about it and say it out loud. "I think... I think being sad is kind of like a habit for me now. It's normal. I'm used to it, and when I'm not sad I'm convincing myself I should be."
"You said you had problems with your body image. Has this lead to anything besides depression? Anorexia nervosa, bulimia, et cetera?"
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. "Um, yeah, I tend to not eat sometimes."
More notes on the clipboard.
"How long have you been depressed?"
"Oh, shit. I don't know, maybe around a year?"
"What about your sleep habits?"
"Uh, sometimes I don't sleep at all because I don't want to. Sometimes I can't. Sometimes all I do, and all I want to do, is sleep for days."
"Have you ever contemplated or attempted suicide?" The word suicide strikes a nerve. A slight waver in my breath, a second before I can blink.
"Yes."
"Alright, thank you for being honest."
She smiles at me again, and then stands up. She goes over to a computer in the corner of the room that I didn't even notice. She starts typing something in, but the screen is turned away from me so I don't know what it is.
"Were gonna start you off on Prozac, which is a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor, or SSRI. One by mouth every morning. It could take up to two weeks for you to notice a change, and can be up to around five weeks to take full effect, but it'll help you. It might help you get back on a regular sleep schedule, lessen anxiety, and lessen anorexic compulsions and behaviors. Does that sound okay?"
"Yeah, that's fine."
"If you're still having trouble sleeping, you can take melatonin supplements, but wait at least a month."
"Alright."
"I'm gonna print of your prescription now, you can pick it up on your way out. Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?"
"No, thanks." Numb again.
"Alright, then it looks like we're all finished up. If you head out to the right, you'll come right up on the checkout."
I stood and exited. I signed papers at the checkout. I got my prescription. I never looked anyone in the eyes. I thought about taking a sticker for Pete, he'd think that was funny. I didn't have the nerve to do it.
Pete stands up as soon as he sees me in the lobby, and tears pool at the bottom of my eyes. I try to blink them back, but in doing so only push them out.
I did not want to do that. I wish I did not have this paper in my hand. I wish I didn't have to do any of this. I wish I wasn't so un-fucking-stable.
I fall into Pete's side as he comes up next to me, and cling onto his arm. He walks me outside, and when we reach the car he wraps himself around me, crushing me into him. I want to disappear into him.
"Are you okay?"
And then I'm angry. I'm angry because I didn't want to do that. I'm angry because Pete said he'd be there with me, but he wasn't. I'm angry because he asked me if I was okay, and that's the question that breaks me every fucking time.
A low sob chokes out of me before I can clench my mouth shut. I snap my eyes shut too, and tears dribble out of them.
Don't fucking cry. Weak.
I suck in several deep breaths.
I press myself into Pete even though I am angry at him, because he is safe. I wrap my arms around his chest inside his jacket, and breathe him in.
I. Am. Okay.
"Yeah, I'm alright."
* * * *
We arrive at the local pharmacy and collect my prescription. Back in the car, I hold the little orange bottle in my hand. When the car rolls over a bump, I hear each pill rattle.
One by mouth. Every morning.
I read the label. I read it again.
Someone's put something I can try to kill myself with, again, directly into my hands.
I don't blink. Even when my eyes burn, I don't blink.
And when I do, I can't open my eyes again, because they sting too much. So I wait.
"Patrick?"
Oh no. I'm being weird, aren't I?
"Hm?"
"Prozac, yeah?"
"Mhm."
"You know, I think I was on something similar to that when I was, like, nineteen."
"Mh."
I want to ask him a million questions. I want to ask him if it tasted like anything. I want to ask him if it helped. But it must not have, because otherwise he wouldn't have tried to kill himself when he was twenty-five. But I can't think about that. Oh God, I can't think about that.
That's how Pete did it. He took a handful of medication, and he swallowed it. I stare at the bottle again.
"Pete, take this away from me."
"Why?"
"Just. Please."
"Patrick, it's not that big of a deal. Come on."
"Fuck off. I can't deal with this right now."
"Jesus, that was a bit brash."
"Stop," I say. I'm pissed now.
"I didn't do--"
"STOP."
"Fine. Whatever," he says, then barely whispers: "Fuck."
I drop the bottle into a cup holder in the center console, and stare out the window.
I do not want to say sorry, but I am sorry. I want to talk to him. He didn't do anything. I'm being a dick, and I feel like crying. Why am I such a shitty person? We sit in silence for several more minutes, and then all my anger is gone.
"I'm sorry, Pete. I don't mean to be such an asshole."
"I know. It's alright. Sometimes I just don't understand, and I get that."
"Yeah."
"When's the last time you slept."
"What time is it?"
"Nearly three P.M."
"Twenty-seven hours ago, approximately?"
"Fuck that."
"Mm."
We're at a stoplight, so Pete quickly pulls out his phone and types something in.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing. Texting Brendon."
"Oh." That's not nothing, but okay.
By the time we reach Pete's house, it's four.
"Go nap or something," he says to me as soon as we step in the doorway. He shakes off his jacket and puts it on a rack nearby, slipping off his shoes by the door. I follow suit. He drops the keys onto a small table near the door, and then stretches out on the couch.
I head to the bathroom adjoining Pete's room, the pill bottle clutched in my hand. I look at it one last time and then pull the mirror forward to reveal a cabinet. I set it inside, stare at it for a second longer, and then close the mirror-door. I am left staring at my reflection. The bags under my eyes, the slight frown on my lips.
I blink. Then again. Then I turn around and slide onto Pete's bed, curling myself into his sheets in the center of the bed. I breathe him in once again and feel my chest lift, as it does when I think about him.
A small smile plays on my lips as I drift off.