Escape

Escape

She had wanted out.
She'd had enough.
Living had become too much for her. She hated herself. She was
unworthy. She was bad. She didn't deserve to live.
Not one person she knew saw her as unworthy. She wasn't bad. She
deserved to live.
She saw herself in a way that no one else possibly could. She was
trapped in a normal, above average looking body by an intelligent and
recalcitrant mind. Only the occasional bout of anti-social or slightly
aggressive behaviour would reveal a little of the true state of her
mind.
There were very few times she experienced fictional happiness. There
were very few times she experienced fictional melancholy. She did,
however, know what subjective happiness was. It served to make the bad
times even worse. She was unable to let herself feel happiness. It hurt
too much.
The guilt was the worst. What most appear to merely accept, she dwelt
on. For days, months even, she would fret over the most innocent
comment she had unwittingly made. Even worse, a comment she had made
years ago. A comment no one else would be able to recall even if
carefully questioned. She felt guilt for years about innocent, childish
behaviour, such as playing 'I'll show you mine' when she was told not
to with the five year old boy down the road.
Adulthood had proved to be a living nightmare. Average lessons learned
in one's early to mid twenties developed into obsessive-compulsive
thoughts for her. The usual round of failed relationships, of issues in
the workplace, discovering that people can be malicious even when
'grown up' were all attributed in her mind to her own behaviour. She
believed at the time she was finding it hard to fit in and to accept
responsibility. Having sought advice from a couple of so-called friends
on a few occasions, she had encountered jealousy. She felt she had
somehow invited the betrayal.
Her GP called it a 'patch' young women go through, and wrote a script.
She'd taken the prescribed medication. She'd felt better, the anxiety
lessening. What she hadn't felt was in control. Medication was only a
temporary reprieve from the tension that spiralled inside. The pills
were like a street drug. Her reality of the situation was always
lurking in the background. She was, quite simply, suffering from severe
depression, mentally ill, and nothing would allow her to fully accept
the fact.
Months later, in a state of insomnia induced desperation, she had
contacted the area mental health service for guidance in finding a
psychologist and was informed that if she could articulate her need for
counselling, she didn't need their help. She found a counsellor through
the Yellow Pages. She had been uncomfortable in doing this. Her state
of mind had become a commercial transaction. The counsellor only made
her more aware of her 'abnormality', her alienation. In listening to
him discuss her issues, in classifying her, the label of 'mentally ill'
was stamped across her forehead for the entire world to see. It was bad
enough that she was expected to accept it. She ceased to bother
discussing anything personal with anyone from that point.
Of one thing she had been thankful was that she hadn't been compelled
to hurt or physically endanger another. The mere thought of any kind of
harm, emotional or physical, to another living creature had been enough
to prevent her from feeling as though she could properly function in
the day-to-day world. Desperately afraid of her actions impacting
others, she emotionally retreated into her own world.
Of course, she did mange to function in the day-to-day world. Her
intelligence allowed her to juggle the obsessive-compulsive guilt with
the necessary activities of life. She was a master deceiver, and the
world is selectively blind. No one else ever really knew, no one else
really wanted to know the real her. Is it fear of awakening some
primordial thought that stops us from wanting to know?
She was obsessed with being perfect. No one else had to be perfect,
only her. Her expectations of herself exceeded even that of the most
demanding or demented parent. On good days, she was driven to succeed
in all spheres. On bad days, she wasn't driven to achieve, but to
ensure her life was as guilt free as possible. This hadn't stopped her
making mistakes. She was, after all, only human. Why couldn't accept
the fact? Logically, she was aware of the limits of human frailty.
Mentally, she was unable to reconcile them for herself.
She became a victim of her intelligence. Had she not been so aware,
known too much of her state of mind, she could have merely been
regarded as a little eccentric. She should have indulged her talent for
writing, pursued her deep-seated dream to achieve literary recognition.
She felt she wasn't good enough, abandoning her talent even after
winning a notable literary award and achieving publication for her
short fiction. She then felt like a coward. She dreamt of blissfully
sliding into insanity, of escaping her reality. She had nightmares
about blissfully sliding into insanity, of escaping reality. There was
no escape.
None of us saw it. Who hasn't used the expression 'so and so seems a
little down' in describing or excusing someone's behaviour? I said it
so many times. Why hadn't it triggered alarm bells in me? She was my
sister. I had no idea. I mustn't have wanted to know. I couldn't have
wanted to know. All the signs were there - now that I'm aware of the
signs. It's always too late, isn't it? I now know what really to look
for, and what not to dismiss. I dismissed her feelings. I dismissed
her. How many times had I quipped 'Don't take things so seriously' or
'You think too much' then changed the subject?
I failed her. I know she didn't see it that way. She felt she had
failed me. I never thought that. There were times when I had been
disappointed by her decisions, like when she stopped submitting her
writing for publication. But never disappointed in her. Never. In all
honesty, I'd never really thought too hard about it. She was my sister,
and we all do things that are a little strange at times.
She hadn't left a note. She left me her journal. The slim leather bound
volume revealed her final decent into her own personal hell.