Get Out, GET OUT… GET OUT OF MY APARTMENT! I CAN’T TAKE IT RIGHT NOW, I NEED YOU AND ERICA TO GET OUT…
I wish I could take those words back.
That’s what depression does: It beats the shit out of the ones you love and those who love you. I was empty, out of fuel. I was heated, pissed off. The day had included me meeting New York’s finest while I argued with the movers as they were trying to leave with my stuff and demand payment for a job not finished.
David’s depression, his moping, his constant attention needed, his need, all the bullshit just wore and wore and wore away at me. Why are you so fucking sad all the time? Get over it! Jesus Christ, you are pathetic. Come on, man. Man up, shake it off. I love you, why can’t you see this? I’ve got you. Why are you doing this to yourself? How can I help? Why can’t I say the right words? I am worried for my brother? Jesus, he hasn’t called. Are those rings around his neck? Did he try to strangle himself? What does that pill do? It’s going to be okay, he’ll just shake this off. I’ve got you. I’ll see you everyday. No, it’s normal. We can get through this. See, life is good. What is wrong now? Why are you moping around again? Take a walk. Ride a bike. I’m coming over. Let’s get some cheese-steaks. I got some chicken parm. It’s cool, we love you. We always have your back. Stop fucking being lame. You’ve got to wake up. You cannot leave me, you asshole. I need you. What happened if you actually pulled this off? I need you, Erica needs you, your family needs you. Stop being a pussy. We’re going to get through this. I know we can. Why don’t you understand the lyrics? You’re not crazy. I know you hurt. I hurt, too. You are hurting me. I am not trying to make you feel bad. I love you, man. Please stop. Cheer up. Let’s go eat. Wake up. Let’s go for a walk. I can’t, but I’ll be home soon. I have to move tomorrow, I need your help. You can help me, see. You are helping. You’re going where? I’m coming over. Why didn’t you call? Why are you sad right now? You’re not crazy. They’re called mood stabilizers, you need to take them. There’s nothing wrong that. Why are you so fucking mopey? Man up. Come on, man. This is exhausting. No, you’re not a burden. Why are you walking so far behind us? Come on, man, put a little spring in that step. I’m coming over. Let’s just watch a flick. I need you, man. You’re not allowed to leave me. I will be here every step of the way.
GET OUT, GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY APARTMENT… GET OUT, GET OUT OF MY APARTMENT! I CAN’T TAKE IT RIGHT NOW, I NEED YOU AND ERICA OUT OF MY APARTMENT!
I see his eyes. I am fuming. I am spent. He is in the doorway of my kitchen. I am a ball of rage, and his depression has now beat me. The last memory I don’t get to take back is telling him to leave.
And he never came back.
And as much as that isn’t my fault, and as much as people say you need to forgive yourself, I never will. I promised him I would watch out for him forever. Because that’s what big brothers do. And I fucked it up. I took my eye off the ball, and I asked him to leave when I should have hugged him and asked him to stay.
That is what this condition does: It beats the shit out of the mind who is struggling, and it beats the shit out of the people who love that person. You don’t just hurt you suffer.
I suffer every day, and two days out of the year, in particular, I suffer more than anybody will understand. Because I get to go to sleep tonight knowing my last words to my little brother weren’t uplifting or encouraging. They were an admission that depression was kicking both of our asses, and we had no fucking clue what to do about it. I succumbed to it in a moment of weakness, and I will live with that for the rest of my life. I see his eyes. His innocence. I unloaded on him so unfairly. I asked him to leave.
And he never ever came back.
