what you made me

I know what it is the doctor wants to ask, part and parcel of the diagnosis; he has to ask it at some point.
‘And how do you feel about life generally?’ That wasn’t what he wanted to ask, it’s like he’s afraid if he uses the actual word it’ll somehow put the idea in my head.
As if.
I don’t answer; just stare at the wall behind him. It’s taken me twenty years to accept that I have a problem; I’m not about to play anymore games.
‘Erm, what I mean is you aren’t having any, erm, well suicidal thoughts.’
I meet his eyes then for the first time since entering the room. There’s still part of me that rebels at the idea of involving someone else, of running to someone else to solve my problem – I don’t need anyone, or maybe that’s the problem maybe I do need someone…
He clears his throat.
‘Do I want to be dead? Is that what you’re asking?’ He’s as startled by my words as I am. ‘every second of every day.’
The answer doesn’t satisfy him though, ‘Do you have thoughts about doing anything about it?’
The question makes me angry. ‘Suicide’s just another word for quiting, for lying down and giving up! It’s despair. I said I want to be dead but I’ll fight death ‘till my last breath.’
I can see the confusion in his eyes and I almost laugh – show me one person who gets it, I don’t think there’s anyone capable but I’ll try explaining it to him.
‘There’s nothing left for me here doctor, I’m alone, I’m tired of being alone, and so very, very tired of the self-centred, self absorbed, self important, spiteful excuse for life that is humanity. There has to be something better on the other side. That’s where I want to be; it truly can’t be any worse than this travesty.’ That was all I wanted to say to him but the flood gates had opened; what the hell he already thought I was crazy and if you’re reading this so, probably do you. Do I give a fuck? Ha!
I keep talking. ‘I’ve been an outcast all my life, never accepted unless I let them pigeon-hole me – the monster, the joke! People take one look at me and instantly judge me to be one or the other; I’m Shrek but there isn’t any princess Fiona at the end of this little tale. They’ve decided I’m the ogre and it would have been so easy to become it, I’ve been tempted so many times in my life and you know why I haven’t?’ I didn’t wait for an answer, ‘Because I would’ve been very good at it!’ I hissed the last and I can see that familiar flash of fear in his eyes. I take a deep breath, ‘The monster’s there, inside me, born from countless slights, jokes and endless ridicule and disdain.’ I sit back and my voice calms down. ‘I won’t let it out because if I do even for a second I’ll become the monster.’ I’d wasted my voice but I was determined to finish come what may, I didn’t care anymore. ‘Maybe I was destined to become the serial killer all the elements were in place; a father that hated me, a mother that didn’t feel that much better, no friends, constant ridicule. I think I started along that road but something stopped me before I reached the end before I became the killer. But I’m tired doctor, I’m tired of keeping it chained inside me; why should I? for them? To protect they who have caused me so much pain?’ I laugh at the look on his face; if there was a button under his desk he’d be pressing it like mad now.
I sit back in the chair, ‘don’t worry doctor. I’ll never let him out.’
We sit in silence for a time as he tries to decide which particular mental health pigeon hole I fit into.
‘Why?’ he asks in a quiet voice finaly.
The question throws me off balance; I didn’t expect it.
‘Why won’t you let it out?’
My eyes leave him and return to the wall. ‘Because all my life I’ve seen that monster looking back at me from their eyes, I see it now in your eyes but there was one, I liked what I saw in those eyes, they didn’t see the monster.’
‘Then why do you want to die? Surely that’s something to hold on to?’
I burst out laughing, ‘You’re absolutely right doctor it is something to hold on to. But I have to die to do it because they’re over there waiting for me.’
‘You could…’ His voice trails off, one look at my face tells him that no, I’ll never meet someone like that again.
He falls back on the easy solution; drugs; some of them ease the pain, some of them fill my head with cotton wool some make it feel empty. Some make me sick and some just shut me down but I go to bed every night praying that I won’t wake up the next morning and wake up every morning cursing the fact that I have. I visit the doctor regular; have to fill in these stupid forms with questions like how many times a day do I think about dying ha! Just once, from, the second I wake up to the time when, if I’m lucky I fall asleep. He asks every time if I feel like killing myself but he already knows the answer, it’s like he’s just making sure.
You see what I didn’t tell him is that while I’m not a religious person I don’t take likely the possibility that the Catholics and Muslims have got it right; that suicide is eternal damnation. I don’t know whether that’s true or not but I know there’s something beyond this life – when I do sleep; I dream, I dream of the owner of those eyes and sometimes that’s all it is a dream. But sometimes I know its more, I can feel the difference. Those eyes are still watching me, still seeing me and not the monster and I won’t risk being separated from them for all eternity because of impatience. You all think I’m crazy and that’s okay, crazy or the monster what difference does it matter. There are a lot of monsters roaming this world in human guise but here’s a question for you how many of them did you create yourself? Fear me, hate me, ridicule me but I have protected you from one monster for these past years and this monster would have made the others pale in comparison. Don’t worry I don’t want your thanks give them to the owner of those eyes to a little, sickly black and white mongrel called Shep who’s soul outshone all of yours and who saw me as father, brother and friend but never as monster.