What’s the Worst that Can Happen?
trigger warning: self harm, suicide references, naïveté
It’s past midnight, and I am sitting on the wooden bench outside my flat. I never sit on the wooden bench outside my flat, especially not past midnight — because it’s usually where the drug dealers and morning drinkers sit (it’s theirs — there’s a plaque and everything). But this evening I am not in my right mind — so I am sitting on it. And I am hyperventilating.
I am on the phone to a woman I do not know, but she is saying all the right things. Her voice is kind, and compassionate. Even though she can’t quite understand everything I’m saying through the sobs, sniffs and occasional extreme declaration of self-immolation, she never once makes me feel like my feelings are trivial. She apologises on behalf of my problems. It’s not so much that what she is saying is profound — I am sure she no doubt has some sort of cheat sheet to read off of. But it doesn’t matter — just the fact she’s there at all is a comfort. She’s not even being paid. She just wants to help me. She likes hearing this stuff. She probably gets off on it. No Jen, stop thinking that way. She’s just a good person. Unlike you. Why don’t you kill yourself, Jen? Fuck you, brain.
“I am such a fucking idiot” I keep saying, sometimes to her — but mostly to myself. But I am calming down. I am becoming more verbally understandable. I wonder what I must look like to passers by, but no one is passing by. And even if they did, a trans woman crying on a bench past midnight is something most people don’t make eye contact with.
I eventually hang up, wipe my face and brace myself to go back upstairs to the flat. I look for the keyfob in my bag, but it is gone. I know I brought it down, because it’s usually attached to my keys — and I have my keys. I’ve lost my fob, and now I can’t get in. I’m going to have to phone my flatmate to come down and get me. Like a big baby, who loses her fob.
—
It’s nearly midnight, and I am sitting on the balcony having a panic attack. I — can — tell — I — am — about — to — have — a — panic — attack — because — I — start — really — struggling — to — take — in — air — between — words — when — I — speak. I have just hit myself in the face several times to “snap out of it” but if I’m honest, it also somehow makes me feel slightly better.
I stand up, and tell myself that I’m going to jump off, but then I sit back down again on the floor of the balcony to stop myself. I do this a good 10 times, sort of like a morbid game of musical statues (or whatever the version of it is where you sit down and stand up, we played it a few times in school and I can’t remember the name of it — if it even has a name).
Some scientists say that the brain and the mind are one and the same, but if that’s true then why do I always feel in opposition to my brain? I don’t want to jump off the balcony, not really, but my brain is telling me to. Yes, it’s using my internal voice to say it, but I still have the ability to argue back, albeit in the same voice — but it’s my fucking voice. Get your dirty brain-hands off my voice, you fucking ugly brain.. It is loud though — my brain. Not academically too bright, but certainly persuasive.
My flatmate appears at the balcony doors. She had been out for the evening, and returned to find me acting like an absolute freak — reeling and rocking on the balcony. I feel bad for not making her fully aware of my lunatic tendencies before she agreed to move in with me. She asks me if I’m alright, and I tell her that I’m not alright. Usually, I would lie — but it’s sort of hard to sell it when you’re a puffy mess who’s clearly been having a breakdown on the balcony. I get up, and make my way out of the flat. I don’t wait for the lift — instead I run down the stairs. Or maybe I jump down? Or fall. Or slide down the bannister. I don’t actually remember the process of getting down there. But I didn’t jump off the balcony, so that’s progress right?
—
I’m in my room, sitting on my bed. I’ve just sent a text to a guy, which isn’t unusual in itself, but on this occasion this is a text I’ve been thinking about sending all day. Hell, not just all day but all week. Before then, even. And what’s more — I know this guy. Like, in real life. We are friends. But not friends in a way that is too friend-y for it not to become more.
I like him, alot. And I just told him as much, in the aforementioned text. Full disclosure, it wasn’t a text — it was a WhatsApp instant message, but I grew up in a time of Nokia 3210’s, so much like your nan who still calls the DAB “the wireless” — I sent him a text.
He responds. I don’t look right away — instead I brace myself to look. I breathe. Ok — I look.
I sink. I can tell he’s made an effort to let me down gently (and kindly) but it hasn’t worked. It’s not his fault. I have sunk, and it’s too late. A million neurons inside my head shoot off in different directions — down infinite avenues of self doubt, loathing, flagellation, pity, esteem (lack of) & immolation (aforementioned).
I burst into the hallway of my empty flat, reach for a bottle of Vodka, swig it and go onto the balcony.
—
I’m eating my lunch. I am texting with this guy, who I actually know in real life. We have arranged to meet up in the next few days for a coffee. We’ve hung out a bit in the past, but this feels different because it would just be me and him. We’ve been talking on and off for weeks now, which we hadn’t done before. He’s funny, and smart, and goofy, and talented.
I’m tired of online dating. I’m sick of the artifice of it. I just want what everyone else seems to have — I want to meet a boy, and feel a connection and have them ask me out. Or I’ll ask them out, if they’re the shy type. I don’t mind. I’m a modern gal.
I just want to feel normal. I want to feel like I am worthy of romantic attraction with normal guys. I don’t want chasers, or fetishists.
I decide that at some point, maybe later tonight, I’m going to see if this is a “date” before we go on it. I want him to know that I want it to be. It feels like it is. Or will be. Or should be. I’m getting date vibes. It feels like it.
In fact, I’m certain it is. Just this once, I need to follow my gut. Maybe my string of bad luck with dating recently has been just as much my fault? Perhaps I need to take more initiative, and respect myself more? Maybe guys will want to date me if I make it known that I am dateable. Maybe I need to be more proactive, and confident. Just tell him you like him. You’re not a freak — you’re a nice person. And you deserve consideration. It’s entirely within the realm of possibility that a guy could just like you for you. That he could see you as just another gal. You have worth. You are beautiful. You ARE.
Besides, it can’t hurt to just ask, can it?
I mean — what’s the worst that can happen? He says “no”? BIG DEAL.
thank you to Samaritans.
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