Untitled, By Unknown

14: Talk, damn you!

Writing time: 19th- 20th November 2016

'My fault. My fault. My fault. It's all my fault. Stop it. Stop. Stop crying. Stop crying.'-  Charlie, The Perks of Being a Wallflower (film), 2011. Once again, another fitting source for a quote considering my description of Him last chapter. These links won't continue; it's just been luck. On an unrelated note, I'm kind of annoyed that I had the whole of my favourite book to choose a reference from and the best fit was from the film. A phenomenal film, yet not the book. Still, it fits well. Too well. Don't worry, this chapter starts a bit cheerier than the mood I've set here. I'll keep my inner depressed emo side contained (a lesson I feel quite a few online writers should replicate).

Stage one: Find out who he is. Stage two: meet him. Now, there was stage three: the online connection. The clear way to maintain and hopefully intensify the growing link between us (which is such a bad way to phrase it, I know). Messaging services had greatly impacted on all three of my previous relationships- and almost certainly kept them alive longer than three days- so maybe it was time to use them to start one. This segment of the unwritten plan (yeah, definitely unwritten- it genuinely isn't, but the sarcastic side of me just wanted to put that) was easily done, just a simple friend request to him as well as the guys from Economics- they were cool enough to warrant an invite. However, there was something that needed to be done beforehand- I needed to change my profile picture. Needless to say, the old one portrayed me as about twelve, when I was in fact fifteen when I took it. Fortunately, puberty had done... well, something. I appeared older and maybe better looking (I'm probably not the best to judge that). At the very least, I looked better than the previous almost year-old image, and I wanted to create a better depiction of myself to these new people. Well, mainly one of them- the Economics guys stalked my Facebook in class three days later and found the old one anyway.
Stage four was to initiate a conversation with him, as well as the optional (but pretty helpful) objective of finding concrete proof of his sexuality. Build up that friendship, and increase the chances of a positive response to a certain future inquiry. The problem with this was actually sending the dreaded first contact. This would take two days to accomplish.
In the meantime, I began scrolling upwards through the string of messages between my ex and I, in order to see how to start a romantic discussion. This was a mistake. All the old memories resurfaced, and I felt deep regret once more about how things had turned out. I'll be honest, I never fully got over him, even if I was now pursuing somewhere else. Yet now I'd started, I was determined to reach the end- well, the beginning. Three weeks of messages, eleven hours' worth each day barring the ones where we actually saw each other and even then, there were still a decent amount. Unfortunately, one day away from the start, I accidentally clicked the side of the screen and sent myself back to the very bottom. I was not going to try again. It's unrelated, but it's just occurred to me: We went through all those emotional events, formed such a strong bond- though we only met in person four times. Just four.
(Well, that's not quite true- I'll get to that.)
Sunday. Those two days later I mentioned. I finally summoned the bravery to message him. In theory, none was needed. I was just messaging a new friend. That's all. I was hardly going to ask him out there and then. As is tradition when messaging a potential future partner, I began with 'hey'. Clearly, I am a master linguist. He responded with an explosion of excitement and caps lock. Truthfully, after looking at his profile, I'd expected nothing less. We conversed for a matter of hours, with dialogue that showed we had much in common and little conflict- apart from his apathy towards politics. He even switched to lower case, which I think is a good sign.
We exchanged words twice more that week, but by day three conversation had worn thin. Not that we were sick of talking, it was just that there were only so many topics. Plus, there was the problem that I was more invested in the chat than him- for obvious reasons. Oh well. There were always other times- and real life. And that side goal? Yeah, I got nothing. The emo had also been messaging him that first night, and had gotten a 'no idea' from him- useful. Actually, it could be. If there's doubt, he's not necessarily straight. There's wiggle room. That was what I had (and still have) to work with.
Week two of college passed pretty uneventfully. However, after college- then there was something.
It was the Friday night of that week. A family night, which were intended to take place on Thursdays but only mostly worked out that way. This social time with close relatives would normally end up in the cinema, but this time... well, we went to the cinema. We pretty much always did. I mean, we'd gone bowling fairly recently. That was the only difference in routine aside for a change in source of food before or afterwards I think we've ever had. If you're interested, the film was 'Bridget Jones's Baby'- which was notably enjoyable despite me not being a middle-aged woman (not that I'm calling my parents middle-aged. Hang on, what justifies 'middle age'? One second, I'm googling it... turns out it's 45 to 65. To be fair, that fits one of them).
Afterwards, we went all out and journeyed to McDonalds for food. No expenses spared here. My stepmam elected not to get sauce, as we had some at home. I'll return to that point in a moment. On the way home, I was in one of my emotional thinking moods. In this case, my predominant thought was about crying, and how maybe it would be a good thing to do in order to release some emotion. The problem with this was that it's very difficult to just begin tearing up. I'd tried before, and it had been impossible to trigger.
No, you need a reason. One was about to develop.
We got home, and my stepmam went for the sauce in the cupboard. Now, I'd used up the last of the ketchup a couple of days ago, and there was only a small amount of barbecue sauce left. I'd neglected to mention this. Needless to say, my stepmam got slightly annoyed. She lectured me angrily, asking why I hadn't said anything. I'd just forgotten. I was sorry, I quietly murmured. Once again (Example 149) I felt ashamed. Guilty. Wrong. As soon as I could, I grabbed my food and sped upstairs. Counting the steps; thirteen in total. One at a time. Up to my room. Food placed down. Drink carefully rested on the desk. And then the tears.
Slumped over my bed, weeping. How pathetic. But I couldn't control myself. The cause at this point was insignificant. Only the effect. As I broke down, one bitter thought crossed my mind:
Well, you wanted to cry.
Fuck off. I mean, you're right, but fuck off.
Here, another thought occurred to me. I need help. To be fair to my mental capacity, I hadn't only just realised this. I'd known about my issues for about a year at this point, but had said nothing to any figure who could help with it. A few friends knew. None in detail. They didn't know about what was mentioned in Chapter 10, for example. The fear of sharp objects. The panic attacks. The worry about my brain.
Yet I hadn't confided in an adult. Why? You tell me. I was just too uncomfortable to say anything. Part of me thought it would be a bad idea- the illogical, bullshit part that I knew was illogical and bullshit. I just hated asking for things or talking to adults about something specific. My parents tell stories about when I was younger, about how I would write notes on the tiniest pieces of paper and post them under the door, asking for the more insignificant of things, such as a biscuit. They and the other adults who are being told laugh. I fake a smile. Things haven't changed. It's just now I want to ask for something with a bit more relevance. Maybe they'd notice something was wrong. Maybe they'd work it out. Maybe I'd develop the courage to tell them myself. After all, this was probably the worst breakdown I'd ever had (ha, just wait, past-me. You've got some shit coming). I needed to say something.
I heard a parent coming upstairs. I stood, in case they came in. They did. It was my mum. I remained faced away, but clearly wiped trails of tears off my face. She knew something was up, comforted me by pulling me into a much-needed hug. It was ok, she said. My stepmam was under a lot of stress at work (which was true. She'd been off for months. This was another reason I convinced myself was good enough not to say anything. Can't have two mentally weak people in one household, can you?). I didn't need to worry.
Did I say anything then? Nope.
My stepmam later joined me. Said the same stuff, apologised. I just went along with it and remained as mute as possible. I'd given myself undoubtable evidence I needed to talk to someone. My mental integrity had just crumbled over a fucking condiment. Two chances to do so had presented themselves.

Had I done anything? Not at all.