The War Within
By: Colin Tessier
I: My Own Worst Enemy
She quiets the demons inside of me. Her embrace gives me peace; her kiss makes my world stop. She completes me; I need her in order to feel…okay. With her, I feel content, at ease and secure.
My alarm clock pulls me out of my dream. I have it set to play a random song from my iPod instead of the generic sounds the clock is programmed with. On this fine morning, I’m treated to Beck’s “Loser.”
“I’m a loser…”
And as this uplifting song brings me into bleary-eyed consciousness, I’m reminded of a crucial contrast between my dream and my reality.
“She” does not exist. At least, not anymore, in the context of my life. She’s gone. I am alone.
This train of thought officially wakes me up. I bitterly smirk, internally laughing at the cruelty of my dream. I roll out of bed and see my reflection in the mirror staring at me.
(Why did is that mirror there? I hate mirrors.)
I stand in front of the glass rectangle, and I look at my face. The eyes catch my attention. They seem so sad, so empty. The pain is obvious in these windows to the soul.
(How did it get so bad?)
The typical stream of thoughts comes pouring in. It’s like a refrain in the song of my life.
(You’re a loser, a freak, a nobody. Nobody likes you, you’re unlikable, you’re-)
The mirror shatters. My hand drops along with countless shards of glass. The anger rose in me, pouring through my veins, and I had to get it out. I look at my hand. The blood—
I return to reality. The mirror is intact. My hand is undamaged. I think about how my therapist would react if she knew I punched a mirror.
(“Now, Cody, that’s not a healthy way to express anger. You know that, don’t you? What good did punching the mirror do? Did it make you feel any better? Did it help?”)
Physically expressing my anger never helps. The pain, and the frustration, is still there, like always. So, I’m stuck. I carry the pain with me. It weighs me down but I fight on. That’s all I can do; life goes on. The world doesn’t care if I’m sad, nor if I’m hurting. Everyone goes on with their day, and they just judge the awkward, quiet kid that doesn’t mesh with society’s expectations.
I look at the clock on the wall. Seven o’clock A.M. Another day begins. I find a table at the dining hall, grabbing a cup of coffee along the way. I sit down and observe the room around me. Everyone is sitting down with someone, or even multiple people. A group of guys tell stupid jokes and they all laugh. A cluster of girls gossip and commiserate. Several pairs of people, clearly couples, hold each other’s hands and enjoy their partner’s company.
And here I sit. Alone. Too shy to really branch out and make real connections. I make small talk so people don’t think I’m a complete recluse, so that I can have just a taste of the social interaction everyone else gets on a regular basis. But here, at seven fifteen on a brisk and drizzly morning, I sit by myself, seeing everyone else interacting with others. I feel alone, like always.
(Must be Tuesday.)
No, this happens every day. This is my life, or at least what it has become.
Sometimes, I don’t feel human. I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong; why I’ve never been popular, why I’ve never made friends easily, why 99.9 percent of the girls I’ve talked to reject me one way or another. I don’t understand…
(Why? Why? Why?)
It’s so tempting to add a second word to that sentence, to make it the question so many people love to ask…
(Why me?)
That’s a little too melodramatic for my taste. I just stick with the infamous, “Why?” Is it because I was dealt a bad deck of cards in this game that we call life? Is that why all of these painful things have happened, and are still happening, to me? Is it because I had a father that abused me and, by doing so, taught me that—
(Reel it back, buddy. That’s too soon to go so deep. You’ll scare the readers away.)
Yes, dear reader, I do talk to myself. I don’t really care if I scare you away. I’m not writing this for your entertainment. Instead, I’m simply trying to make a little more sense of this chaotic world.
I thought my life was tumultuous at that time. But I soon came to appreciate this quiet, uneventful portion of my life. As unhappy as I was, I would soon long for those days. I had no idea just how truly crazy everything would rapidly become.
II: Love Drunk Pain
“What’s up?”
I’m sitting on the smooth leather seat of a chair that is as black as the midnight sky. I look out the window, and at the “brighter world that awaits outside.” That’s what my therapist, Meghan, always says. She’s trying to get my attention because our session has started.
“What’s up?” she asks again.
What’s up, Doc? Well, let’s see…. I’m a depressive; lately, my world feels like its enshrouded in darkness.
[Doctor, I’m certifiable]
When I’m not miserable, I feel dead inside. The glass isn’t half full or half empty; it’s completely desolate and void of everything that used to silence the monster inside of me. I start tuning Meghan out. She stopped being helpful a long time ago. I attend these sessions to appease my mom and to make myself think that, one day, things will get better. I know that’s not true, though. I’ve been trying to heal for years, but I’m still bleeding. Hell, it’s been getting worse and it’s my fault. I broke up with my girlfriend, Hailey, shortly after we left for college. Within a week of my first semester in college, she said that she wanted a break. I took that a step further and ended our relationship. I told myself that I could find someone better. I wasn’t “happy” with her, so I broke up with her in the hopes of finding someone…better.
[You damn fool.]
You see, I’ve learned that I was wrong. I don’t think that I could have been “happy” with Hailey. I’m nearly constantly depressed, and I deal with so many other demons that happiness is my own brass ring that is always out of reach. I haven’t been truly, consistently happy in a long, long time. I don’t think I ever really have been. Hailey brought me the closest to happiness that I had ever been. She made me feel content, at peace and a hell of a lot more secure that I did without her. But I threw it all away because I thought I could find true happiness. I now know that I’m incapable of that.
After I ended my relationship with her, I quickly realized the magnitude of my mistake. The misery that frequently threatened to take over my life now roamed free. There was nothing to stop it. Without Hailey, nobody could stop it. My mom couldn’t help; my dark side would always counter
[She has to love you, she’s your mom. She won’t acknowledge your true faults, no matter what.]
The few friends I had were helpless in my internal war. They didn’t “get it” like Hailey did. So, I gave up. I let the anguish course through my veins. After fighting for years, I was tired. I felt that I had nothing worth fighting for. I surrendered. As a last-gasp attempt to save myself, I poured my heart out to Hailey less than a month after I broke up with her. I apologized; I told her I was a fool, and I said that I still loved her.
Meghan didn’t have anything meaningful to tell me about my breakup with Hailey. The first time, she angrily lashed out at me and harshly turned me down. While that hurt, I still had hope. I thought I could get past her anger and rebuild our relationship. I tried a second time. Hailey wasn’t angry anymore. She calmly told me that she could never be with me again. I was alone.
I had never known what a broken heart felt like. All of the songs I heard about it used to mean nothing to me because I never had to experience. I can’t say that anymore. Hailey broke my heart. My heart, like glass, shattered into a million pieces.
After my useless session with Meghan, I stood motionless in my driveway. I felt the anger, and the pain, rising in me again. I had to do something to make it stop. I gathered up everything that Hailey had ever given me, and everything that remotely reminded me of her and I threw it all away. Then, I took all of the pictures of the two of us, and all of the cards, letters and notes that she had ever given me into the living room. The ancient woodstove across the room started controlling my thoughts.
[I have to burn it all. Out of side, out of mind. Burn, baby, burn.]
These thoughts started to echo and grow louder and louder. It felt like I was in a trance as I found the matchbook in the closet. I picked up one of the boxes Hailey used to give me a Christmas present; it had a pattern that had “LOVE…XOXO…” written repeatedly all over it. I bitterly smirked; Hailey clearly didn’t love me anymore. This box, therefore, was advertising a lie. I felt the angry tears well up and run down my cheeks. I started shaking as I silently sobbed, realizing just how alone and pathetic I was. A lump in my throat ballooned as the tears kept coming. I stared at this box of lies. The box was filled to the rim with pictures, letters, notes, all of them laughing at my.
[Look what you’ve thrown away, you moron. Look what you’ve done. Look what you’ve done to yourself. This is YOUR FAULT. You have no one to blame but yourself. You DESERVE THIS.]
[SHUT UP!]
The tears were flowing like a river now. I couldn’t breathe because I was sobbing so hard. That’s when I realized that I had lit a match and tossed it into the box. I watched the glow of the warm flame spread. The flame fed on the paper like a carnivore. It was merciless as it blossomed. It was magnificent. I watched the pictures, the letters, and everything else crumble into ashes.
[Ashes to ashes, we all fall down.]
I felt the heat of the fire on my face. I was mesmerized as I watched the destruction of all of my remaining physical proof of something I used to hold so dear. As I watched the flame spread, my misery temporarily subsided. I didn’t feel anything for those minutes; I just watched the fire and I liked it. Soon enough, the fire died and I was left looking at a pile of ashes.
For most of history, man has feared fire. There have been exceptions of course, but fire has always been regarded as a dangerous force. That afternoon in my living room showed me a new side of fire. It could be captivating. It could silence my pain. Soon, it would silence my suffering in a way much more permanent than the destruction of some paper.
