“Stagnation” - a commentary on the mental healthcare system in America

TW/CW - for suicidal ideation and cutting.

I’ve never paid so much attention to the artificial yellow color of the lights in my bathroom. The way it burns through my eyelids like a heat lamp. Is this how my pet lizard felt? Trapped in its own head with nowhere to go, except to ram itself into the glass walls of a cage. The burning desire to die doesn’t end, even as I focus on lining up my scented hand lotions in alphabetical order. Apple blossom, bergamot, cotton candy, a sickly sweet one that has the nerve to say it smells like a daisy. 

Actual daisies don’t have any particular scent that I can recall. The blades of grass around them are sharp with the odor of gasoline, from lawnmowers, but I’ve liked how modest the flowers are. They don’t care to boast, but this damned hand cream definitely wanted to invade my nostrils, even while it is sealed tight.

I try not to think of what a failure I am, as I pull up my sleeves and glance at the tracks of cuts tracing my wrist.

You were never supposed to sink this low, a voice taunts.

This is one of the demonic voices; he isn’t particularly kind. Although Mom told me not to personify the creature whispering in my ear, he kept appearing. I drew him over and over, trying to gain the upper hand. If I could give him a face and eyes, a form to tie the taunts back to, then maybe I could trap him. Instead, I feel like he is controlling me. My parents didn’t know what to do when they saw the monster appear on paper. The symbols on his face, his multiple eyes and limbs. It was official: my mind had gone elsewhere. I glance at the mirror in front of me, the olive skin, dark ringlets, and hazel eyes staring back, are not ones I recognize. I don’t know if their cheeks are tinted red from anger or sorrow. The cuts upon my skin sting as I trace my hand over them. I’ve forgotten the order of the lotions, lined up semi-vertically against my dirty sink. Nothing seems important; even the pain of a literal open wound feels numb. A slight tingle, bordering on a burn, but my nervous system doesn’t light up with pain. The night sky is a navy blue that borders on black, the outlines of pine trees in the far distance beckoning. I could climb up on the roof the way that they do in the novels I read and hang my feet over the edge, so close to the brink of death that my brain jump starts back to life.

But you know that you don’t deserve to be here, it repeats. Do it. Do it. Do it.

When did shrivelled candy wrappers start lining his dorm room, the smell of marijuana smoke reeking on his clothes? When did it start becoming so hard to wake up, to the point where he’d stay in those loose- fitting sheets for hours at a time, rolling over on his foam mattress? When was the last time he opened my laptop to do an assignment? The bright glow of the device was something he began to despise, the silent clack-clack-clack of its black letter keys a rhythm I started to avoid altogether. All work and no play makes Amos a dull boy. A boy whose hair had yet to be chopped off, whose breasts marked his black tank top. A boy who went by a different name, one that he wanted to shed off like the way his pet lizard did its skin. It died all those years ago, face up in that terrarium. From dehydration or from the confinement, he’d never know. Probably a mix of both. He wasn’t sure why the lizard, with its rough green skin the color of clovers, graced his memory, but he felt the same way. Starved of any spark that made him feel like continuing to go to this university, with its tight schedules and demanding deadlines. 

While Amos was trudging back to his dorm room, through the fog- laden campus, he saw purple signs plastered everywhere, boasting a three- digit number in a white font. A cheesy slogan was written in smaller letters: You are not alone. It is brave to ask for help. Dial 277 if you are in a crisis. A sharp cackle escaped from Amos’ lips, and his chest shook with laughter .

“Right!” he exclaimed. “Doctor, can you please cure me of my depression? It’s five fucking p.m; I’ve slept all day, and I still feel terrible.”

As his mother loved to remind him, Amos wasn’t in high school anymore. If he doubled over laughing on campus, people walked right past him. They didn’t pause to take notice, or to ask what he found so funny. No one seemed to pay Amos much attention, except for his friend Maritza. He contemplated spending the night at her apartment instead of the dorms. At least they shared a similar semblance of dread about the world. It was better than lining up his collection of hand creams on the sink while  gazing at the stranger in the mirror. The girl who went by a name he’d never asked for, one that was legally engraved into his ID card and called in every class. His pink bed sheets and tight dresses only served as a reminder of the disguise he’d yet to take off. In a silent bout of anger, Amos knocked the hand creams down as if they were a line of dominoes. Some skidded into the sink bowl, while others simply fell on their side. His phone sat turned off in the pocket of his shorts, and the screen flared to life as he unlocked it. 

The lock screen was a picture of him and Maritza, dressed in sequined gowns for prom. They’d chosen to go together, but Amos never knew how to explain why the form-fitting purple satin and heavy face makeup felt constricting. He’d secretly despised the sparkling heels pressing against his feet, the constant brush of the dresses’ train against the floor as he danced. He was faced with that girl once again, the one his grandmother could accept. She’d taken in the dress and aligned it perfectly to his curvy figure. Amos averted his eyes, typing in his passcode and opening the phone application. There were three missed calls from his parents, and one from Maritza, all colored a blaring red as if they were missing assignments. He ignored them, shifting to the keypad screen. Amos flicked off the light, shrouding the restroom in darkness. He padded back to his dorm room, pacing in between his disheveled side, with crumpled  paper bags and red boxes from McDonald’s littering the floor, a confusing tarot spread (why was the tower card so scary looking?) and discarded lollipop wrappers,; to the bed and walls that were stripped bare on the other side. Amos dialed each number slowly,  with intention, unsure of what voice would emerge on the opposing end.

2-7-7.

The first voice was as robotic, with an empty drawl that caused him to cringe. It recited a welcome message, devoid of any warmth or humanity. Amos rolled his eyes, mouthing of course as the voice instructed that he stay on the line. He obeyed, pacing the same short loop, back and forth, back and forth. At some point, he began to spin aimlessly around the room, hoping that it would invoke a feeling other than numbness, or some heavy weight in the pit of his stomach.

“Hello?” an overly curious voice asked. “This is the crisis hotline. We are happy that you reached out to us! What can we help you with?”

The crisis worker sounded more like a salesperson advertising a product than someone who’d be willing to hold space for his pain. Amos hesitated, keeping Maritza in mind as backup as he opened his mouth to speak.

“Your guys’ number is everywhere,” he deadpanned. “If you’re good enough for the school to put you as a resource, how do you help people with crippling depression?”

“Have you had any thoughts of suicide in the past twenty- four hours?” she pressed.

“No. I’m feeling amazing. Life could not be better. No sadness to be found here!” Amos said, another laugh escaping his lips.

“Ma’am, you don’t sound okay,” the voice was edged with worry.

“Don’t call me ma’am!” he yelled into the darkness.