Broken

“Jesus, James. She must’ve known. She’s your mum.”

Again, I shrug. “If she did she never mentioned it. When I was twelve I tried to slit my wrist, but I wasn’t brave enough to go deep.” I rub over the tiny scar on my left wrist and, as I close my eyes, I’m back in that bathroom, hovering my arm over the turquoise sink.

“How did nobody notice that? You were just a child. How did no one see?”

“It didn’t bleed much. It was easy to cover with a long-sleeved jumper.”

There’s so much pain, so much confusion on Theodore’s face, and I hate myself for putting it there. But I can’t stop. I need to get it out. I’ve never spoken about this time in my life with anyone, not even Max, and my heavy heart feels a little lighter with every word I speak.

“I tried again when I was thirteen, this time thinking pills would be easier. My grandmother used to take distalgesics for her arthritis. I took a strip and kept them hidden in my bedroom for weeks. I’d stare at them every night before I went to sleep but, for a while, I still had hope. Hope that it was just a phase, it wouldn’t last forever, I’d get better.”

Tears sting the back of my eyes. I’m in as much pain right now as I was all those years ago. “But I got so tired, Theodore. My mother was upset all the time because the school wouldn’t leave her alone, berating her over my poor attendance. I hated myself for doing that to her but I couldn’t face going to school. I couldn’t keep pretending I was okay. I was exhausted.”

I dare a glance at Theodore’s face and the silent tear rolling down his cheek almost destroys me. “So I took them. I swallowed the whole strip, eight tablets, with a bottle of elderflower sparkling water.”

To this day I can’t drink that flavour of water. It takes me right back to that place. I can still taste it on my tongue all these years later.

“Oh God, James…”

“It didn’t work, obviously. I passed out on my bed for a few hours then woke up feeling weak and sick and ran to the toilet. I threw up violently, bitter green bile pouring from my body over and over again. My mother found me. She yelled. Asked if I’d taken anything. I denied it and we never spoke about it again.”

“How the…why the fuck didn’t she help you? She’s your goddamn mother! She can’t have been that stupid!”

He sounds annoyed with her and it makes me feel uneasy. “She’s not a bad person, Theodore.” I feel a powerful urge to defend her. She isn’t responsible. I am. “I don’t know if she knew. Sometimes I think she must have, but I’m a good liar.” I still am. “Maybe it hurt her too much. Maybe she just didn’t know what to do.”

“You could’ve…shit, James you could’ve died.”

“That was the plan.” I hadn’t meant to say that out loud and I don’t realise I have until I see the shock register on Theodore’s face. “It wasn’t lack of will that stopped me succeeding. It was pure naivety. I assumed one strip would be enough. They were prescription strength painkillers.”

“Y-you don’t still have these thoughts?” It comes out more like a plea than a question. He’s hurting. I’m hurting him.

It kick starts my instinct to lie. “Not for a long time.”

I’ve attempted suicide three times in my life, although seeing the grief in Theodore’s eyes makes me unable to discuss the third. Each time I was just a kid, but it wasn’t for attention. I didn’t want to wake up. I wanted the pain to stop, my demons to die. But I was too young and stupid to get it right. I haven’t completely lied to Theodore. Thoughts of ending my life have flickered in the back of my mind since my last unsuccessful attempt as a fifteen year old, but never as intense.

The truth which I can’t admit to Theodore, to anyone, however, is that now I’m older, wiser, if that urge to free myself from this darkness ever descends on me again, I have absolutely no doubt I will succeed. I have pills hidden, unused prescriptions I’ve held onto over the years. I have a fool-proof plan. One that I hope I never have to use, and one which I know I shouldn’t have, but it’s there…just in case.

“I can’t believe nobody knew,” Theodore all but whispers. “How can you not notice somebody breaking right in front of you?”

“Like I said, I’m a good liar. A good actor.”

“You shouldn’t have to be.”

I disagree. The only thing discussing my problems achieves is placing that burden on someone else. It doesn’t take it away from me. It just means I have to watch somebody else suffer beside myself.

“What changed? How did you get your diagnosis?”

“Max wouldn’t let it rest. He pushed for a referral direct to a psychiatrist without a general assessment first. It took him months, but he did it. I didn’t want to go. Cancelled my appointment three times. I mean, I’d been told I was depressed. He was a professional. I took his word for it. Thought I’d just be wasting their time again.”

“You shouldn’t have been made to feel like that. Professional isn’t the word I’d use for that tosser.”

I smile. Not because it’s amusing, but because I’m relieved, if not slightly baffled, that he’s still here. “Eventually, I gave in, if only to appease Max. It was a completely different experience that time around. This guy knew what he was talking about. Knew what questions to ask. He…well he took me seriously.”

“But…you’re better now?” He shakes his head before correcting himself. “I mean, it’s being managed?”

“Yes.” It’s not a lie as such. I am managing it, just on my own. The lithium slows me down, and when my father passed away I needed to be alert or the business he’d spent his whole life growing would’ve gone to shit if I’d continued living as a robot.