Cold

I wake to find panic and despair staring me in the face. A wicked cruel wall of white on the other side of the room, barren of posters or paintings. A messy floor, disarray is life. The slight breathing above me, my bunk mate, still sleeping. My blankets are twisted, barely covering. The blinds sway, clinking and clanging in a mild autumn breeze. We forgot to close the door less our stench fill the room with acrid aftertastes.

It is cold.

I am panicked.

There is nothing to panic about. Mild problems, not the end of the world, failed classes and broken promises. Yet I am panicked. Is it I who am such a failure? Ignoring my problems for too long until they build up into this moment of consciousness where I am blindly panicked and cannot close my eyes to block out the thoughts. They come too rapidly, confused, dazed, too jumbled for me to do anything. I cannot concentrate on anything but the panic. And it is cold.

It is suddenly too cold.

I need to be warm.

I get up, shaking, goosebumps, too cold to think. I grab a towel and head for the bathroom, following routine without thinking. I lock the door. Think about leaving it open should I cut my wrists and want someone to find me. But I don’t. I lock it. Don’t want anyone to find me. I turn on the water, all heat, no cold. I am already too cold. I strip. Step in. It’s warm. I want hot. I turn up the heat. It’s not hot enough.

I am still cold.

Even beneath the heat.

The water doesn’t get warmer, stays lukewarm. I cry. My teeth chatter and I cry, too cold not to. I shake, wrap my arms around myself, need to get warm. I rub my arms, trying to move my blood. I panic again. I know something is wrong. I know I am not thinking. I try to calm myself, tell myself that I am pretending again to be depressed. But this time, I cannot do it. I cannot stop the thoughts I cannot stop the cold, I cannot. I decide that today I will swallow a bottle of pills and drink the rest of my wine. I decide that before that, I will cut into my arms as punishment for every failure that I’ve ever done. I decide to do this today.

It is still cold.

I cannot get warm.

As the water beats down on me, I prepare for death. I prepare for suicide, a word that brings me to tears at the mere mention. Suicide, my greatest enemy. Today I am losing. Today I plan on giving in to temptation. The water gets warmer, suddenly spiking. I begin to calm. But I stare, my eyes boring holes into the tiles of the shower stall. What is wrong with me? I do not know. Self fulfilling prophecies? Psychology jargon running through my head. But I cannot figure out what is wrong with me. This can’t be me. I am not myself.

I am cold.

Though the water is warm.

I get out of the shower, dress and head for the kitchen. Have to find the pills, the wine, the knife. Ready to go. I hear the microwave. My roommate is home, making oatmeal. I can’t do it when one of them is home, wouldn’t want to get caught. Don’t want to get caught. I head back to my room. It’s cold again in the room, the door is still open. I lay down, try to sleep. I cannot think straight. Why is this happening to me? What is happening to me? I don’t understand what’s going on. I need help. Call Amanda. No, don’t want to bother her. Parents are out of the question. No one will understand, no one will take me seriously. Just another depressed college kid, isn’t that what that movie said? No one cares about depressed college kids. They care about the depressed who take it out on others, not who take it out on themselves. Am I vying for attention? I do not think so. I just want to leave.

Why is it still cold?

I need to warm up.

I know who to call. I look up the number and dial it in. They tell me that they don’t take appointments anymore. I cry, thinking they, too, have given up. But then she says that someone will call me back to do an evaluation over the phone. I’m too cold and tired and tearful to say thank you. I wait, staring at the blank computer screen, wondering if I’m just acting again. Trying to convince myself that there is nothing wrong with me. But why then am I still so cold?

He calls.

“Hello?”

“You called about making an scheduling an appointment with us.” He says his name, I don’t catch it, not really comprehending who it is who is calling yet. When I understand, he asks, “Could you tell me what’s going on with you?”

“I wish I knew.”

We laugh. An awkward chuckle. I decide this man isn’t so bad. He sounds nice.

“Ha, is it the same stuff that was going on the last time you came in?”

How did he know that? That was two years ago. Is it the same stuff? God, two years of this? It finally hits me. I am depressed and have been for a while.

“Yes.”

“Anxiety and depression?”

“Yes.”

“Is it more anxiety or depression?”

How the hell should I know. “I don’t know. It’s just…I don’t know.”

“Could you tell me some of the symptoms?”

I want to yell at him that I don‘t know what the symptoms are for anxiety and depression. But I try, because he seems nice. “Um…well…I…I’m afraid of things. I don’t like to be around people. I can’t think straight.”

“Do you have thoughts of hurting yourself?”

I think about lying but decide I can’t. I need this. But I can’t bring myself to tell him all about my thoughts. I mumble out a quick, “Um…maybe.”

“Ha, that’s a pretty pregnant maybe, isn’t it?” His laugh is a nice laugh. I decide that I like him. I laugh too. It’s an awkward laugh, but at least he’s treating me human.

“Yeah, it is.”

“Have you hurt yourself before?”

“I used to cut my arms.” Was I pretending back then? When I used to cut my arms with shards of a broken picture frame? Shards of glass, mirrors, scissors? 41 slices. I think I wrote a poem.

“So you just have thoughts about hurting your arms?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have any suicidal thoughts?”

“Yes.” No hesitation.

“Okay, how often do you have them?”

Every fucking day. Every fucking hour. Every fucking minute. Every fucking thought. “Well…I…I mean I talk myself out of them, but I have them a lot. Just…a lot.”

“Okay. We’re going to go ahead and make an appointment for you.” I didn’t think it would be that easy. “You’ll meet with Dr. John Taylor.” Good, I didn’t want to talk to a girl. Last time I did and she looked at me like I was just every other patient coming in. I didn’t like her. I didn’t go back. “Could you come in on Wednesday about 2 o’clock?”

“Yes.” Immediately.

“You can?”

“Sure.” I’ll skip a class, no problem. I just want to come in.

“Okay, so we have an appointment, right?” I know what he’s doing. He’s making sure that I’ll make it to Wednesday. Don’t worry man without a name, I’ll make it. Now that I’ve got something to look forward to.

“Yes.”

“Good. We’ll see you on Wednesday.”

“Thank you.” From the deepest depths of my heart.

“Goodbye.”

“Bye.”

I am starting to warm up.


Author's Note: True story. Had to get it out.


Also: Thanks to everyone who expressed their concerns. I've gotten my Depression under control. No more of these panic attacks. Also, I will not be editing this piece, so thanks to the people who reviewed it, but I'd like to keep it the way it is because I wrote this during the lowest point in my life and I don't want to dress it up.