CW: This chapter discusses mental illness and suicidal ideation. If you have questions or thoughts on my work, please don't hesitate to open that conversation up with me!
to: cassandra.belford@baderu.com
from: weston.maguire@baderu.com
subject: Something to make you laugh (I hope)
sent: February 19, 2017 at 3:25pm
Hi Cassie,
So, I gave it a lot of thought, you know, what to write to you. I think I'd like to make you laugh. All of this writing to you has made me feel like I could be a writer, too. Maybe not an author, because I don't usually have the patience to read entire books, let alone write them. I think, if I were a pro, I would be a playwright.
So I'm sending you a play that I wrote---it's a Weston Maguire Original. Enjoy.
Okay, so the play (which I admit to making up as I go) would be about a cult. Not like a creepy cult from a documentary, but a funny one.
I'd name them Saviours of True Divinity, so that everyone refers to them as STDs.
The play is about a kid who has been born into the cult. Hercules. His parents named him that because of the strength it implies, but everyone at his school calls him Herpes (you know, because of the STD thing).
I'm realizing that while I'm getting a laugh out of this, you probably think it's incredibly stupid.
I'm sorry, but I've already committed to the bit.
Anyway, Hercules/Herpes is a smart kid who has some doubts about the cult and begins to think that everyone at school might have a point about the Saviours of True Divinity.
He's knitting a scarf (I've decided that the cult was started by an old hippie grandma who sold her knitting. So now everyone knits scarves and mittens and then sells the stuff they knit to the outsiders) and he wonders if every stitch is an opportunity he is missing. It'd be like half cult, half craft show.
Maybe he'd even sing a song about it.
The opening scene of the play would be Hercules, only five years old, presenting at his kindergarten show and tell.
The children are all in uniform, (I've decided that this whole thing is in England, so picture everyone with an accent) but young Hercules is wearing a Jesus looking robe. You know, because that's what people in cults wear.
Teacher: So, tell us, Hercules, what have you brought in today for show and tell.
Herc: I brought in my first scarf! (holds a short, skinny piece of yarn out to the class)
Teacher: A scarf?
Herc: Yes. This is the first scarf I made, and it represents my commitment to my church!
Teacher: (Chuckles nervously) it's a bit thin, isn't it?
(The audience starts to see that the teacher is right---the scarf is a metaphor for the child's relationship to the cult---thin. They begin to nod and murmur. It's intricate storytelling.)
In another scene, probably the climax of the play, Hercules would tell his parents about his doubts and start shaking the piece of yarn/scarf and tell them that they're knitting lies. The ending would involve a big dance number that references The Need for Knitting Needles.
Okay, okay, I'm done. Thanks for reading all that.
I know my play is shit. I'll save you the trouble of telling me. It was just me trying to be funny. I like emailing you, but I'm not much of a writer. For a while there, I thought I might be a good teacher. I applied to the teacher's college, but it doesn't look like I'm getting in this year.
Which is fine.
Hockey is still an option. A few of the minor teams reached out to me, and even if the money isn't great, it's a start, right? It's weird, though, that hockey is actually more stable than academics for me.
Still, I could really see myself teaching.
I hated school until I started taking classes with one history teacher in my junior year of high school. He didn't just list out names and dates for us. He made us 'grab history by the balls' and care about what happened in the world before we got here. We watched documentaries, re-enacted trials, and wrote to historians. It was awesome.
That's what I'd want to teach by the way---high school history. I have no idea how to teach (or talk to) little kids. What if I fuck up and tell them about Santa? When they shit, am I responsible for wiping their ass and buckling their belt? Because that seems like it's asking a lot.
Oh, that reminds me of something you said yesterday about belts: Lucas wore a braided belt to dinner, and you found it hilarious. I don't think I've ever worn a braided belt, but I've never found them funny, either. Rest assured, a braided belt will never touch my pants.
I'm a big supporter of belts, as a concept. Think about it, how many times have you seen an action movie where the main guy uses his belt as a tool to save the world? He throws it up around a line and grabs the other end to zip line to another building. He takes it off and tightens it around his partner's leg to stop the gunshot wound from bleeding out. In the event that I ever need to do something wild and crazy, a belt might be the tool that saves my life.
Sorry, class is about to start, and I need to pay attention. My grades need to be a lot better this semester. I'll write you another email tonight.
So, what about you, Cass? What are your ambitions? Have you always wanted to be a writer?
Later,
Wes
. . .
to: weston.maguire@baderu.com
from: cassie.belford@baderu.com
Subject: Re:Something to make you laugh (I hope)
sent: February 19, 2017 at 4:59pm
Wes,
I'm not sure if your play will win a Tony award this year, but better luck next time. I did laugh, thank you.
I started writing at an early age. It was an inexpensive and portable hobby that helped me sort through my racing thoughts and ideas. But I wasn't an aspiring author until quite recently. There wasn't one moment I decided to write a book and get it published. It just sort of happened.
I have no idea what to tell you about my ambitions.
There's so little that I love, but I think I love writing just enough, so that's my plan. Maybe someday I'll figure out something else, but for now, writing is good.
Simon and Sarah are sitting at the kitchen table eating pancakes and watching tv on his laptop. Hank is sitting with me on the floor. I can see their feet touching under the table while Sarah pretends not to notice the described video.
They are each other's ambition, I'd say. If asked about his future, Simon would point to Sarah and Sarah would smile ever so lovingly and reciprocate that notion. It's nice for them. But I'm doubtful such certainty exists in my own life.
Cassie
. . .
to: cassandra.belford@baderu.com
from: weston.maguire@baderu.com
subject: Peter
sent: February 19, 2017 at 9:50pm
Cassie,
I'm glad I could make you laugh. Today ended up being fucking awful, so I'll take any win I can get.
I got home early today, and I was just standing in the kitchen eating a pop tart (don't judge me, please) when Pete came home. His jacket was unzipped, and he wasn't wearing a hat. That's normal. He's had mild frostbite twice, but he doesn't learn, so that didn't phase me.
What caught me off guard was the look on his face.
He went straight into his room and shut the door. For context, Peter isn't a 'shut the door' kind of guy, at least not when he's okay.
I shoved the rest of the pop tart in my mouth and followed him in without knocking. He was sprawled out on his bed, still wearing his jacket and shoes.
"What happened?" I asked.
"Nothing," he muttered.
That's something else that's important in understanding Pete---it isn't always something. What I mean by that is that there isn't one big thing that makes Peter depressed.
He is depressed by the way, officially. I found out after I googled his medication.
Peter takes three different pills, two of them he takes every day, and one when he's really not okay. But there are days that medication don't seem to make a difference.
There's no way to predict when a bad day is coming. For example, he was fine the day he and Aisha broke up. I kept waiting for him to break, but it never came. After they ended things he was more spaced out than usual and quieter, but he brushed his teeth and went to class like normal. And then, on other days, he falls apart and can't explain why.
It doesn't happen often, but sometimes he just collapses. For me, it comes out of nowhere. When it will hit him, or how long it will last are all a series of unpleasant surprises.
Sometimes it's only a few hours, but then there are other times that it takes days for him to get better. Weeks on a few occasions. He sleeps a lot. He gets out of bed to piss, shit, and occasionally eat, but he stops going to class and taking care of himself.
There was a whole week and a half last year that he lived off a case of orange soda and caramel pies that Lena baked.
I wasn't sure how bad he felt today. I stared at him for a few seconds. "Do you want to talk?"
"No."
"Can I do something?"
"No, it's not that bad."
That was good enough for me. There was only one time it was that bad, and I get nauseous when I think about it.
I don't really like to talk about it, but I feel like I owe you this, after the shit I pulled the other day.
One morning last year I came home and found Peter looking worse than I'd ever seen him. He was crying, loud and rapidly like a machine gun, and covered in sweat. I wanted to call 911, but he shook his head and handed me the keys to his car. I didn't think about it at the time, but it's pretty scary that he'd already been holding them when I came home.
I drove him to the hospital. I didn't know where else to take him.
He was admitted quickly, and I stayed in the hall while he went through triage. I'm not sure how long it all took, but eventually, a nurse came out to tell me that they were going to keep Peter for a couple of days. She was nice, and she said that I could stay with him until his parents arrived.
I'll never forget the way he looked at me when I went into the hospital room where he'd been examined. It was like he wasn't himself, anymore. The crying had stopped, but he was still sweating like mad. He kept apologizing to me, but that just made it worse---it's hard to explain. But he sounded so desperate and scared, and I wasn't sure what exactly he was saying sorry for.
His parents took him home for about a week after that, and the doctors put him on medication.
Today, he didn't look half as bad as that morning. "Can I get you a sandwich or something?" I asked, feeling stupid.
Pete smiled slightly and shook his head. "I'm good."
He wasn't good. But who was I to correct him? The smile was reassuring but he still wasn't okay.
We sat there for a while, him not talking at all and me talking too much, and eventually, Peter kicked off his shoes and pulled off his coat. I rambled on about the weather and classes, hoping that if I talked enough he would start to look more like himself.
It didn't work. I mean, what was I expecting, right?
I made him listen to me talk about nothing for almost an hour before I realized I might be making things worse by being there.
"I don't know, should I just fuck off?"
He shrugged. "Maybe for a little bit."
"But if you want to watch TV or something, you'll knock on my door?"
"Sure."
So, I left him alone. Now I'm writing to you.
I don't know why I'm telling you this since you don't know Peter at all and you barely know me. But maybe that's not a bad thing, you know, to talk to someone outside the situation. It's kind of a relief to write things out to someone who is hearing it from me. Sorta like counselling.
Peter goes to counselling. He sees someone through the hospital. I have no idea what that's like (or if it's helping) but he keeps going back.
Sorry, Cass. I know this is kind of a bummer and probably not all that relevant for your book. I should have told you about how I separate my laundry or what type of ice cream I like instead.
1. I don't separate my laundry.
2. Anything with peanut butter or chocolate. Preferably both.
I hope it's okay that I wrote to you about this. I mean, Lena and I have talked about it before, but not many people really get it. I feel like you might.
Sincerely,
Wes
. . .
to: weston.maguire@baderu.com
from: cassandra.belford@baderu.com
subject: Re:Peter
sent: February 21, 2017 at 11:30am
Dear Wes,
Thanks for writing that email. You trust me, and I take that very seriously.
I have some advice that I think might be useful: first, stop eating pop tarts. They're not good, Wes. Just because something is sweet, does not mean it's good. Second, you should really be separating your laundry.
The third suggestion I thought I could offer is about Peter. You didn't say the actual words, but I know and you know that people are held at the hospital for 48 hours when they are a suicide risk. You shouldn't be afraid to say that Peter was at risk of harming himself. The words are upsetting, but they should still be acknowledged. Even if Peter wanted death, he chose to go to the hospital, and choice beats want in this game of rock, paper, scissors.
I thought we could chat about counselling, since you seem to lack my own experience with the subject.
Counselling, therapy, whatever you want to call it, feels pretty pointless until you find the right person. At least, that's what Simon keeps telling me. He saw all kinds of doctors when he started to go blind, and many of them recommended that he develop a relationship with a mental health professional to help him through the "transition."
Simon says that he had no hesitations about seeing a counsellor, but I'm not so sure.
Simon's rich (and admittedly lovely) parents found him a sought-after psychologist. Simon hated him. During the initial consultation, he kept talking about seeing a silver lining. Seeing. To a kid going blind. Fucking idiot. It blows my mind how sincerely stupid some people are, despite credentials and education.
After that guy, Simon went to talk to a doctor who specialized in grief therapy, as Simon was mourning the loss of his sight. He was okay, but Simon said his breath always smelled bad.
Then he was referred to a woman with a small practice between Trent, where Si is from, and Kingston. She disliked being called Dr. Johnson, so he's always referred to her as Miss Candace.
Miss Candace was Simon's saviour. Though she's not a fan of hopeful metaphors, she's proved to have quite a lot of hope for Simon. When he struggled with braille she encouraged him. When he cried over his prognosis, she let him. When he told her about meeting Sarah at the hospital she whooped and celebrated.
I owe her a lot, though I've never met the woman. Sometimes I worry about what would have become of Simon without her support. His family is great, but Miss Candace offered him something different, and necessary.
The more time I spent with Simon as a freshman, the more he brought up counselling and the good it could do me.
"You need to try it out, if you find a good person to talk to, it could change everything."
"Cass I'll call and book the appointment for you."
"Maybe if you should try a psychologist instead of a counsellor."
He was like a broken record.
But one of the few benefits of being a college student on scholarship is the health and dental coverage. Because of my grades and 'poorest of the poor' financial status, I got a pretty hefty deductible on top of what every student is allotted; I wanted to get my teeth cleaned once a month, but Simon had other ideas.
I have seen practically every counsellor available through the Student Health Service, the freshman residence therapists, the social workers who work at the hospital off-campus and even a few of the private practices in town---those ones were a remarkably expensive waste of time.
Finding me a therapist has been Simon's passion project for over three years. He's dragged me to 14 different offices. Yet I'm supposed to be the crazy person.
It isn't all bad.
Supposedly, you never have to worry about being judged in therapy. It's also kind of nice to run your shit by someone who doesn't know you outside of what you choose to share. Their opinion is based exclusively on the stories you choose to tell them, and the relationship is yours to dictate. You get to articulate yourself in the way you choose, and your story is entirely in your own words, rather than another person's depiction of you.
I know I should take advantage of the dynamic, but I rarely tell the person in the other armchair anything important. I often count ceiling tiles or stare at my fingernails. I'll listen and respond to the questions they ask me, it isn't cheap to be there after all, but I'm mostly there because of Simon. He feels guilty about my particular brand of fucked up. It's the burden of the well-adjusted; a burden you seem to share. But don't worry---I'll keep your secrets.
My last piece of advice is to pay attention to how Peter takes care of people who need him.
When you're at your worst, how does he respond?
Usually, the way a person expresses concern is how they like to be shown concern. Whether he distracts people from the hard stuff, cracks jokes, shows affection, or chooses to give people space... try to do the same for him when he's not well.
Something to consider.
Regards,
Cassie
I've been in and out of therapy, tried all kinds of antidepressants, and suffered from suicidal ideation since I was 13; I put a lot of my own experiences into Peter's depression. That being said, my experience might be very different from yours and I think that's to be expected. If you want to talk about any of this content or object to something I've written, I'm happy to listen.
x faith