All in my Mind

Epilogue

When I was 11, there was a night where I couldn't sleep because I was too scared to turn the lights off. My mom was at the hospital with Emily. The cancer was fairly new at this point, and it was one of the first times I'd gone more than a day without seeing my mom. The anxiety was slowly getting to me, I think.

My dad was already slowly descending into madness and talking to people that didn't exist sometimes, but this was a good day. I'm really thankful that we had a few good days of peace together. I'm glad I don't have to hate him for being completely absent. He was there when I needed him to be, just enough times for it to really count.

Anyways, I was scared of the dark and deeply embarrassed by it.

I was laying in bed staring at the lamp critically when he came to check on me. He saw the light coming through my doorway down the hall. He was wondering why his kid who always slept okay was still awake.

I didn't normally lie awake with the lights on, but this day was just a hard one. Something about it had me stressed. I couldn't help it. My sister was sick and my mom was gone. Maybe I just missed my mom. I wasn't used to her being gone yet.

My dad stood in the doorway and asked me what was wrong with a soft and concerned look on his face.

"I'm scared of the dark," I said, and I'm sure my embarrassment showed. I felt too old to be scared of such things. It was a little bit humiliating.

My dad nodded and then walked into the room, settling himself at the foot of my bed.

He said, "Can I tell you a secret, Alexander?"

I nodded.

"Everybody is scared of the dark," he assured me. "We wouldn't have lightbulbs in every single house if we weren't. Humans were so scared of the dark that they invented lightbulbs so they wouldn't have to deal with being scared all the time."

I was definitely a little bit suspicious of that statement, but I loved science and inventions and human curiosity. That meant that I was still mesmerized by the idea.

"Really?" I'd asked.

"I'm scared of it too," he promised. "It's fine to be scared. Its really not about whether or not your scared. It's about how you handle it."

After that, he turned my light off. Then he sat there at the foot of the bed reciting the plot to an entire episode of Star Trek. He was trying to sell it to me as an original story. In his defense, I didn't realize it was Star Trek for like 3 more years, and by then he was almost completely out the door. For the night though, I fell asleep listening to a story and feeling safe.

"It's about how you handle it."

I know that you want to know what happens after I pulled a fire alarm and hit my face on the floor. You want to know if I lived or died. It's normal to want closure on such things. It's also normal to be confused as to why you don't get it. I'm not annoyed or judgmental of that kind of curiosity. I really think it's justified.

The thing is, I never know what's going to happen. I've exhausted myself with fruitless predictions. It's generally a pointless task. I don't even know what's true most of the time, so how could I know what to tell you? The future is an open expanse of unanswered questions.

We don't get to know what happens. There is no resolution. There is no sense of grand clarity. Nobody is managing the scales to make sure we all end up happy and fulfilled.

I do hope it's something better though. I hope it gives Alexand— no. I hope it gives me peace. I hope it doesn't look anything like what I've expected or imagined. I hope it makes my mom cry less. I hope it means a type of contentment I've only ever imagined. I hope it means I've accepted things. I hope it means I got past them.

I hope that whatever it is happens because I really tried. I think that would be for the best.

In the mean time, I'll tell you another quick story:

Once upon a time there was a boy, and he was bleeding internally.

He was in really bad shape. His health was already poor, and then he did some nutty shit and swallowed a whole handful of tiny magnets. He was trying to die. He was exhausted and overwhelmed and scared of the metaphorical dark. He really thought he wanted that.

Fortunately, he convinced himself to change his mind at the last minute. He went for help, and he pulled a fire alarm when he realized he wouldn't make it on his own. The noise got people to flood the halls. They came out and they found him. By some unknown miracle they managed to save him.

He was okay in the end, so he decided to make a change. He took his meds and he held himself a very personal pity party. He decided to process the horrors he saw in a highschool cafeteria. He found alleviation from the guilt. He processed how much pain he'd been in. He decided to recognize that his life has had a lot of shitty moments. He decided to know that he had the right to be a little bit upset about it all.

He decided to fight for something better because the world is unfair and he deserves to try for himself anyways.

Things keep growing. He levels himself out. He takes his meds. He decides to keep trying with himself and his mom and his sister. After a very long time he goes home to them.

There's a new little house. It's a little closer to the ocean. It has a cat and a yard with hydrangea bushes, and the boy goes home because he's wanted there. He's loved. He can feel it and he knows it to be true.

Now imagine the story goes another way:

Once upon a time there was a boy who had internal bleeding. The boy was trying to die, but he changed his mind at the last minute. He tried to get help, but then he got scared and pulled the fire alarm.

The hallways flooded, but it was too late. He was stepped on in the panic he'd caused. Nurses didn't even notice him at first. The boy was left there.

The boy died on that floor. He died in pain. He died scared. He died full of regrets.

His mom had to receive a phone call about it. Maybe they even called her in and had her sit in a cushy lounge chair in a dim room while they told her about her worst nightmare coming to life. She had to tell her other child. Their family of four had officially been reduced down to two. They both sobbed.

They both never got over it.

Think about the options. Think about which one you like the most. Which ones sit right with you? Which one do you think I deserve?

If I'm the bad person I've considered myself to maybe be, then let me die on the floor like that. It's okay. I really don't blame you.

If you think maybe I deserve the other thing, then I want to say thank you. I really appreciate that even if it seems like I sometimes don't. I think I want to be worthy of that kind of hope. I think I've always wanted that. I think I've wanted it so badly at times that I've let myself become scared of never getting it.

I'll keep trying.

Just choose whichever option makes you feel better, okay? My gift to you is that you get to choose.

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The End
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Thank you!

Shameless self promo and final thoughts in the next part ❤️🙏