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juushikaThe sound of a ringing phone scares me. When things first started to get bad, freshman year of college when I had my first major depressive cycle and I was trapped at a college a state away, the phone was my primary mode of communication—in some ways a lifesaver, in some ways not so much. I hated school and I was chronically depressed, and all I ever had for my parents was bad news. They became upset that I was upset, and that negative energy was fed back to me; the phone became a conduit for criticism and concern, and I began to avoid it. When I was at my worst, after the transfer and living alone in my apartment, I locked myself away from the world: I kept the windows covered, I slept strange hours, I stopped attending class, I cut off contact with my family and at some points nearly cut off contact with Devon. My cellphone was the only way that my family could reach me. Because I was at such a low point, everything that they had to say to me was bad news—unwelcome concern , unwelcome reminders of reality, unwelcome responcibilities. When I turned my cell off, it went straight to voicemail and they knew that I was hiding, and anyway I still used it to talk to Devon—so I had to keep it on. I screened my calls. When it wasn't Devon, I would have to listen to it ring, and ring, and ring—I would smother it under pillows or a spare shirt or between my hands and I could still hear it ring, reminding me of everything in life that I didn't want to think of.
I'm living with Devon, now. I'm out of school. I'm rebuilding my relationship with my parents. I am not a contributing member of society and I am ashamed of that, but I am healthier and happier now than I have been since I turned 18. But I still avoid commitments and responsibility, and I still hide away in silence for days on end. And the sound of a ringing phone still scares me. I keep mine turned off, and I maintain social contact online instead, but even to hear one of the boy's cells, Navarre's or Devon's, ringing in the background when neither is here to answer it—that pulls out of me shame and fear, the desire to curl under the blankets with my hands over my ears and wish myself, my past, my mind away.
I'm living with Devon, now. I'm out of school. I'm rebuilding my relationship with my parents. I am not a contributing member of society and I am ashamed of that, but I am healthier and happier now than I have been since I turned 18. But I still avoid commitments and responsibility, and I still hide away in silence for days on end. And the sound of a ringing phone still scares me. I keep mine turned off, and I maintain social contact online instead, but even to hear one of the boy's cells, Navarre's or Devon's, ringing in the background when neither is here to answer it—that pulls out of me shame and fear, the desire to curl under the blankets with my hands over my ears and wish myself, my past, my mind away.
