The Memory of Light

“Did I ever tell you my theory about mental illness?”

“Which one? You’ve told me a few.”

“The one about how mental illness makes people smart. It lets us see a part of life that others don’t see.”

I remember thinking Becca was not sensitive enough to ever try to kill herself. I also remember feeling guilty for thinking that.

“So, Vicky, what happened? Did something make you do that?”

I close my eyes. Every conversation I have with everyone who knows about my suicide attempt will be like this. People will want to know why, and they will ask, whether out loud or in their minds.

“That cat never liked me.”

“That’s not true. He liked you. You stopped liking him.”

“It always feels as if I can be doing more, and the only reason I don’t is because I don’t want to, because I really, really don’t like what I have to do.”

“Did you enjoy debate?” Dr. Desai asks.

“Enjoy?” That’s a foreign word. Meaningless.

“About six months. After my mother died. I noticed. I was no longer feeling sad. Missing her. Like I used to. I didn’t feel anything. But that was worse than feeling sad. When I was sad, I felt my mother. Next to me. Helping me. When I stopped feeling sad. She was gone. I was all alone.”

“I want to spend some time today talking about our fathers.”

I can tell by the dead silence of the group that no one is excited about the topic.

“I picked purple because purple is a royal color. It’s also the color for pain, and my life’s been one royal pain in the butt.”

My journals, the only place where I don’t lie.