We were asked to write a narrative for English to practice for exams. A great thing about this blog is that it really does help me with my writing. Before I started blogging I started almost every sentence with ‘the’. So, tell me what you think? It’s quite short.
Hello. This is my first entry into my ‘journal’. Be warned, I’ve never done this before and it will probably turn out to be completely pointless. But, hey, my psychologist tells me it’s a healthy thing to do and I really have a choice in the matter.
I should probably write in this thing.
My name is Christopher Smith. I’m thirty nine and have detested that name since birth. My psychiatrist tells me that I’m depressed but in my mind I’m merely a realist; that’s ironic. I’m male. I was born in Southern California to a man and woman. My father hunted, my mother baked. It was an average life. School, girls, collage, girls, work: queue completion of life. I have a degree in dental health. All dentist stereotypes apply. Well, apart from being happy. I guess.
You might be wondering why I’m so depressed. Too hell if I know? Georgy, that’s the name my psychiatrist insists I call him, tells me it’s a series of events; All starting with a day at work.
It was an average day, I went to work. My first appointment was Mr Gannet. He isn’t usually particularly nice but that day it had seemed like a group of teens had run him into the building throwing eggs. I had lunch at the same place as any other; the cafe’ down stairs. I had some decaf and an egg roll. The day was normal until one of the nurses told me to report to the office. She gave me a half smile. I resent that smile. She reassured me with a pat on the shoulder. I assured her everything was fine and went on my way. I resent that smile.
“Oh, there you are Christopher. I’ve been trying to catch you all day,” the boss said tossing around some papers.
“I’ve been everywhere as usual,” I replied with a grin.
The conversation was short. He sat me down, came around from behind the desk and placed a hand on my shoulder. I would like to say that I knew that something was in progress. Unfortunately I was so unaware it’s almost stupid. In my memory the words tumbled out of his mouth like a bullet. This bullet was aiming for my head. I was being laid off. Apparently three dentists were more than enough for the small business. Some days I can think back to that day. I can feel that hand on my shoulder. I wish I had the nerve to punch him right in the jaw.
Journal, you may have noticed that I’d stated the word ‘series’ in context of events in my last entry. Well, that event caught up with me. I saw my ex-wife today. I don’t even think she recognised me. She should, since she was the reason I’m like this.
After I lost my job I was okay. I still had my home. I had some money saved away. I was going to find a new job and continue on with my life. Sex was the last thing on my mind but it’s a clue that I will never forget again.
“You’re pathetic,” She spat, turning away to look at the wall in resentment.
I looked up at her, caught off guard.
“I’m sick of living like this.”
“I thought green peas and lentils were-“, I stumbled.
“I’m having an affair.”
The room was silent and everything thing around me turned to grey. She didn’t say any more. She simply stood up and left. I never saw her again until today. I can’t remember the last time we had sex and I can’t count how many drinks I had that night either.
You’re a sadist, aren’t you, George?
Even as I sit here writing; I’m holding a bottle of vodka. Georgy says I’m an alcoholic, my reasoning? Vodka is cheap. I guess you could say I drink often. It started when Katie left me. The few remaining friends took me to bars. They were expecting me to hit on girls. I took it as ‘drink away your feelings’. Sometimes they sent girls in my direction. They stopped taking me to bars when the girls started taking their friends and running for it.
The world was hell and alcohol was my God. All I had to do was give myself to him and I would truly be happy. But we all know it doesn’t work like that. There is no god. There’s no one to give us true happiness. Just us.
The electricity was cut to my house. I now sit in a tenth floor apartment building with the sound of screaming children surrounding me. The TV is as loud as possible. I’m seated in the only chair I own. It’s a brown stained armchair that was here when I started renting. I won’t be here long. It’s time to say my farewells.
I won’t be dramatic. In all the time I’ve known you, you should know this by now. You know why I’m ready. I have nothing. I am nothing. I’m nothing but a man with a dental degree but no surgery. I hope you won’t be bothered that I didn’t fill your pages. Let’s hope Georgy doesn’t find out. You are my only friend.
P.S. I don’t think it’ll hurt. I’ve chosen to go with cheap vodka and sleeping pills. It’ll be just like falling asleep.
I guess you didn’t think I would be back. I didn’t either. I’m not fixed yet; realism has no cure. Science says that when we’re about to die a chemical formation starts in our brain and forces us to see white. I don’t remember what I saw but it sure as hell wasn’t god.
It wasn’t like falling asleep. I remember taking the bottle from my lips. It took a while to focus my eyes. My hands were shaking. Or maybe my eyes were. I couldn’t feel my fingertips. My body was cold. The bottle fell from my hand. Faster my heart thumped. And thumped. And thumped. Something forced my eyes to close. It happened so fast in my mind.
The paramedic told me I looked like I was opening my arms up to God. I told him to get his crazy conspiracy theories out of my room.
This hospital room is cold. The other people that sit in beds, behind curtains complain that it’s too hot. I’ve never seen them. But I know they are all sixty year olds with ruined sweat glands. The window beside me is ajar. The buzz of cars climbs up through it.
Sometimes I play chess with some of the nurses. They seem to think my realism is funny. One of them has a daughter, a teenager. She has large eyes. Like the deer my father used to shoot. Her hair is short and stringy. Sometimes she comes and sits next to my bed. She asks me stupid questions. Mostly about death.
“Why are there so many old people in here?”
“They’re here to die.”
“But why here?”
I can’t say that I disagree with her. One of the nurses said I can baby sit her when I get out. She says it’ll be good for me.
I get out of hospital today. I’m not sure what I want to do. My motivation has not changed. My psychiatrist is a hack. I switched to another. Another that won’t bother me with journals. I guess this is our last conversation. But I might check in every now and then.
Angela wants me to come and visit her and her mum in the hospital. I said I’d take them out for ice cream. This little girl is strange. She reminds me of me.