THE BIG QUIET (i-v)
CONTENT: This piece is about serious mental illness.
This intro exists because I’d rather be responsible about that than immersive and artsy. While art helps me deal with my own issues, art is no substitute for professional help. If you’re also struggling, please consider resources like the CMHA and Mental Health America. The search may be long but it will be worth it.
If you know me in real life, I’m doing well and I’m getting better, probably because of kind people like you. Months have passed since I wrote these and in those months I’ve confirmed my greatest hopes. I want this piece to be empathetic and hopeful but my goodwill can’t balance out the potential harm of seeing these topics unexpectedly.
So to be clear: this piece uses a first-person POV and a second-person POV, and the depicted events could be triggering. The next paragraph goes into more detail, so please consider stopping here if there’s a chance that this isn’t the right time for you.
Alright.
The first piece is about the funeral of a young friend.
The second piece describes an episode of depression and alludes to intrusive suicidal thoughts.
The third piece alludes to childhood turmoil, gender dysphoria and has imagery of skin-picking.
The fourth piece is a fanfic with spoilers for John Steinbeck’s East of Eden. It starts with a funeral and ends with a graphic murder. In between is an exploration of one of Steinbeck’s suicidal characters.
The fifth, final piece is explicitly about intrusive suicidal thoughts and the narrator grappling with them.
Please feel free to reach out if you want to talk about these things, find resources, or just check in. I’m so fucking grateful for all of you. Much love, Ember.
Thin little pieces Scrap paper swans Over his balcony Toss them to the lawn Take flight and tumble There’s nothing wrong With catching photos Before they’re all gone B-rated classics Sleep with them on We’ll skip tomorrow If you really want To dance in his hallway Black dresses on Light up the stairwell In ‘candescent dawn (It’s pretty cool you made the card yourself And got his mom to sign it Just cut the corners, no one else can tell) Both hinges creaking It smells all wrong The coffin’s cardboard It’s two-hundred off Pay in the hallway And nod along They’ll pick the flowers If you really want If you want If you want If you want If you want (You can let his uncle start another fight You can ask the priest to let you stay another night You can tell his sisters what it sounded like)
I feel like I could sleep I feel like I could stop and make it happen I feel like I could write something out of this, make it right, make quickly I feel like I could do more I feel like I could text you back I feel like maybe, maybe I’ll just say what I said last week and not reply for a year I feel like I could listen, on loop, on loop walk, on loop, on loop again around the block, on loop on loop, back home, doorknob, shoe rack tired I feel like changing all this to the past tense I feel you did already I feel like writing something new but that would mean doing something new first meeting someone new, being I feel like I could go for a walk I feel like maybe it’s not that close to midnight like it’s getting dark and I could turn on the lights and I could go to the hallway where the lights are always on like I could close my eyes and it would still be bright but it won’t look like a hospital anymore The walls are painted green I feel they could be better I feel like I could clean a little I feel like I will make it messy, again when I stumble back in, dark You are sleeping I am not I throw my jeans to the side of a desk anywhere that will take them and myself into your bed anywhere that will take me I feel like I am better than this I feel like I am in the right place but also that any other place would do I feel like I am still Like I am still in a place, at least I feel it is cruel for my hands to keep moving Once the fatherclock’s have stopped
Pores, litany (2022-06-10)
What have I done To myself all year What have I done What have I learnt but fear I will have soft nights like these again And I will have hard mornings that follow them I halve my heartbeat again And I will have no words to describe it To doctors Oh, they will say— “ Squeeze the devil from your gaping great pores He’ll tear another on His bitter way out Stage left, shaking hands with the chorus Come back in a week If you shake anymore! ” As a child I had these two left socks And could not find their better friends So I folded them together for the week I cannot bring myself to compare you to a sock I, however, am filled with wets And lying on my bedroom floor So I cannot tell you how much I want you And I cannot tell you where to find a home I have opened up my chest before And know you will not find a bedroom in my bones No crayon drawings taped to my arteries Nor trace of incense in my throat No blanket forts between the cavity That holds the ticking heart you bloat If you but wish for the clouds to wait I’ll hold the air between my lungs Same day delivery to my head Where I’ll call indulgence love Where I know not the name for creaking doors That hardly keep the cobwebs in For you to find and one day tell me— “ This cavern is no place to live! ” Testosterone-bent Round the bend, slam the door A coughing fit then The old frame you abhor Bury the axe by The cufflinks she wore Though you'll beg to forget Every sapling keeps score Oh, the blistering sores In the plaster, two miles from shore Praise Ari Aster’s good Paimon, the Lord Call Johann Mendel And tell him the good it was for Oh, He will say— “ Squeeze the devil from your gaping great pores He’ll tear another on His bitter way out Stage left, shaking hands with the chorus Come back in a week If you shake any more! “
Chapter 39 (2020-10-31)
Those were the good years, when the clouds agreed with the earth and the mustard stalks grew high. From King Station to the Post House outside Salinas the reeds hummed with life as trains rumbled by. My mother hated trains as much as she did aircraft, but made an exception for Dessie's funeral. I remember it, for it was my first, and for how the sky wept through the afternoon. Between clumsy greetings and muttered formalities, it was painfully clear that Samuel's children hadn't met since his death. Will regretted that he had thought it too soon to bring up the inheritance, and what little was left of it, in the time in between. He would later tell me that there was always a right time to make money, but never a right time to claim it. And so the priest led a prayer, and so my mother held my arms, and so Will asked if there was a train back to King City in the evening. And it was so. Tom laid the body to rest and buried himself in Samuel's workshop. He let the chafe of twine pull his coarse hands about the bench, and in time found that they formed a self-loading crossbow. He felt not the thrill but the weight of completion and yearned for another project to toil within. The air broke with the shattering of china and the thud of a body, followed by footsteps bounding out the door. Tom got up, unaware of his continued grip on the mechanism, and reached the porch in time to see a youth mounting a pony. The youth swung a sack over his shoulder as he broke for the mustard fields. As was common of the valley's shrinking men, Tom was too tired, too dull to ask his arms to stay still. They each worked their fields in grief, fixing gates and sowing seeds for they could not reap otherwise. Although they did not, even the children knew how they all missed Samuel in one way or another. Aside from enlisting, it was their only acceptable form of self-sabotage. Tom raised the crossbow and fired. He lurched into a sprint, closing the distance as the youth's head disappeared beneath the yellowing stalks. Tom heard a ragged breath that could have easily been his own, and fired a second shot at it in fury. A pained bray rang out in response, above the stems breaking into sloshing mud. Tom fell into a ditch and dropped the crossbow, flailing as he clambered out and lumbered forth into a junction. The thief had torn a path through the field that suddenly split into two. One was marked by fresh blood and erratic hoof marks. Tom followed the other. The sun was low when he paused to breathe. The path gave way to a green opening, where a small body lay crooked. He was still. His crimson hue rivalled that of the apples and meats strewn about him between chunks of homemade bread, and seeped outwards into the fresh grass. In his thin left hand lay the loose drawstring of his leather sack. A rusty jack-knife hung from his trousers. Ceramics, spoons, or valuables of any sort were nowhere to be found. His soft brown eyes, wide open, hardened with fear as Tom knelt and then laid beside him. Sloth smiled. Envy wept. And all the while the rain came slowly, as the evening train rolled into King City. Neither child said a word. And so he lay there tired, wishing for a cup of cider, sinking until the mud covered his arms and the night his open eyes. Neither he nor his aching lungs would work any longer. And it was so.
Depression Letter (2022-03-18)
you're here again, your eyes are drooping and your ears are buzzing there is a moment of awareness, then a choice to keep awake, then maybe another hour before the next moment you are looking for comfort and distraction and easy joy and sensation too much, too quickly would tip you off to the process so it'll be old music, thinking about internet things and going down rabbit holes maybe another video and meaningless comedy, one image at a time, until you pass hundreds and have to scroll for a minute to regain your place eventually songs that felt like 9 minutes go by in a flash you know all the words to your favorite verses but hardly register them any more sometimes you feel very very human doing this there is vulnerability in being alone and enjoying things and there is wonder and curiosity in finding things online but i think you would also not mind doing this in the morning when the sun is up, or in the early afternoon with a friend nearby and food in your stomach i know that this process is impulsive and indulgent but also that some nights it really does help the morning after, you'll have an excuse to be alone, without roommates bursting into their day as you stumble awake you can shower and find relief in drinking coffee from the showerhead even if they are kind and gentle, you still hate the feeling of being observed and can dodge that for a good half-hour but you know that you can feel better, so much better, if you're willing to take the painful transition out of this slumber, this sleepwalk of a month it is not always this quiet there are times when you are alight and feel a fire in yourself that could propel you to do anything, learn anything you feel your mind churning and slamming together ideas that you love and care about, creating things and creating ways to express them and i love you for that there are also times when you feel sputtered out and you're getting better at being patient with that you know you do not need to write or make anything to earn your joy or make up for your lost time i'm talking a lot but let me try to say it quickly— i am so so so so proud of you and all you've figured out how to discard and all you've kept of yourself there is no magical point where adulthood begins for you, when you will log into your email and have your life together your life will find new (and old) ways to come apart and you will bring the threads back as well as you can you will pay your bills once a month and check your emails daily and respond to friends and check in on them and finish your assignments and, eventually, apply to where you want to be next year whenever you've thought "i don't want to live", you've been quick to add "not like this, at least" so long as you know how there are alternatives in reach, and moments of beauty and profound depths for you to reach into, you'll put the thought away and continue you'll reread and rewrite this as many times as you need to until you rediscover your love for the future tenses i know you will.