The Gravity of Nothing

by Chase Connor

  What is unusual is what doesn’t affect my anxiety. Once, when I had been working at the convenience store for barely a week, I was robbed at gunpoint. Some guy I had never seen before, who hadn’t even bothered to cover his face, walked up to the register at two o’clock in the morning and put a gun in my face. I gave him the money from the register calmly and he left. I hit the silent alarm and picked up the phone to call 9-1-1. Then I went back to cleaning until the police arrived. I felt nothing. Because the only danger was that I would end up getting shot in the head and dying.

  That doesn’t make me anxious.

  I think it would be a release.

  You can’t be on pins and needles, crawling out of your own skin, if you’re dead, can you? It would be like sleep but permanent.

  I don’t want to die. I don’t think.

  But I don’t care if I do. I don’t think.

  In a situation of fight or flight, I’m more of a shrugger. Let’s just see how this plays out and take whatever happens. At least when the result of a situation will simply be life or death. Neither scares me much. The concept of living makes me anxious. Death does not. So, there’s no reason for me to worry if I will get shot in the head and die.

  It’s just like sleep.

  But permanent.

  One thing I really love about my job at the convenience store is that the owner and manager both allow me to eat and drink whatever I want. That’s probably because I don’t eat much and I love to drink the caffeine free Diet Pepsi, which no one seems to buy much anyway. They also don’t micro-manage me or ask me too many questions. Generally, as long as I do my job well and don’t complain—which, I do my job very well and I never complain, not even after the robbery—they tend to leave me alone. They might say “hello” or “good morning” or “goodbye”, they might even ask me how I’m doing. Other than that, they just let me do my thing and go home.

  I appreciate that.

  The world is full of a lot of people who don’t understand that some of us spend our minute-to-minute existence just trying to survive. We don’t have the skills required to deal with any of their bullshit. I don’t have energy to hear my coworker talk about how her boyfriend forgot their two-week anniversary. I don’t care about your new grandchild or your new cat. I don’t care what you and your family did to celebrate a holiday. I don’t care the reason behind a coworker asking me to cover a shift for them, as long as it’s a night shift. I’ll take the shift, now leave me alone.

  That’s all I need out of the convenience store job. I need to go in, do my job, get my paycheck, and be left alone throughout the process. I have to pay my cell phone bill and buy my cigarettes and my groceries and have money left over to give to my mom so that I can live with her. Other than that, I don’t need much. Not until I get my mental health issues to a place where they are manageable in most situations.

  I’m really trying.

  I swear.

  Sometimes I feel like I’m doing an okay job and I feel really proud of myself, but those moments are few and far between. Other times I feel like I’m the worst human being to ever exist and I couldn’t imagine anyone giving a single shit about me. I know not all thoughts are true and thoughts can be deceitful. It doesn’t help when I find myself in the “nobody likes you” moments of my life. Well, it doesn’t help stop those thoughts. It helps me manage them. Mostly. When a person is dealing with depression and anxiety, even if they know that something is not true, they have to remind themselves more times than there are seconds in a minute in order to stay functional.

  Nobody likes you.

  It’s a powerful thought.

  That thought has legs.

  My brain only has to think it once and it’s off and running, invading every crevice of my brain, convincing me that I’m the worst. And, maybe sometimes I am the worst. I think we all get a turn being the worst. But my brain convinces me that it is true of me all of the time. Child molesters and mass murderers and perfume snipers at the mall? They’re nothing compared to how horrible I am. I am the worst of the worst and they could all take a lesson from me.

  Do you know how crazy that is?

  Because I do.

  That doesn’t help either.

  Knowing that I’m crazy isn’t completely unhelpful. It helps me to remind myself that not all thoughts are true. Not all thoughts are real. I’m crazy. It’s one of my crosses to bare in life and there’s really nothing I can do about that. I will never not be crazy. Depression and anxiety, especially for someone like me, will be a lifelong problem that I have to deal with every single day of my life. It might become easier to manage and live with, but it will never completely go away. Ever. And that is the worst thought out of all of them—because that one is undeniably true.

  I am crazy.

  I will be crazy.

  That will never change.

  Fact.

  Managing my anxiety and depression was a lot easier when Dally was alive and would come to the convenience store in the middle of the night to keep me company. To remind me that someone didn’t think I was the absolute worst, even if I didn’t deserve to have someone treat me kindly. Because I’m the worst. Remember? Dally would show up after midnight and sit behind the counter with me and talk to me about things that were bothering me. Then he’d explain to me why each thought wasn’t true. Dally was thoughtful that way. He was too kind to me. He had his own problems to deal with but he treated mine as though they were paramount.

  Half-true.

  Maybe they are and maybe they aren’t. But to Dally, the best friend I’d ever had, taking care of me was important. Making sure that I knew that someone cared about me was important. Things were so much better when Dally was alive and around. But Dally is dead.

  Unfortunately, that’s true, too.

  Dally had been dead for over a year.

  That wasn’t my brain deceiving me or lying. The best friend that I’d ever had was now dead and he would never come to talk to me again. Ever. And that thought made me anxious more than anything. It sent me into a well of depression deeper than anything else. And there was absolutely nothing I could do to fight that thought. Because it wasn’t just a thought. It was simply a truth I had to accept.

  Thoughts are tough.

  The truth is fucking impossible.

  A Whole Lot of Nothing

  A psychiatrist, the first one I had after Dally’s death, asked me how I felt about Dally’s death. How I felt about John.

  What a small question.

  How do I feel? How do I ever feel?

  That’s like asking me to reach into a jar full of sand and retrieve a single, particular grain. It’s the needle in the haystack. My feelings now are so varied and intertwined that I’m not sure which emotion I am experiencing from moment to moment, if I’m being completely honest. I feel everything and nothing. And that nothingness has a pull. It has weight. It feels as if I grabbed onto a cinderblock and jumped into a lake. Each moment of each day, I feel myself being held down by the weight of that nothingness.

  Why is Dally dead?

  Why am I not?

  What did Dally feel before his death?

  Did he feel the weight of nothingness?

  Did it drag him down?

  Did he feel that pull and submit to it? Give himself over to all of that nothingness? Relinquish his power? That’s the thing about nothingness—it is persistent; it does not give up. From moment to moment it picks and picks and pulls and pulls until you don’t know how you’ll ever shake it off and kick back to the surface. Nothingness feels a lot like hopelessness.

  You know how a satellite orbiting Earth would come crashing down if it ever stopped moving?

  Did Dally stop moving? Was Dally a satellite orbiting nothingness and suddenly, he forgot to keep moving, and that was when the gravity of all of that nothing got him? Will that happen to me?

  I spend a lot of time thinking about that—especially when my anxiety is at its peak. Maybe I don’t feel suicidal now, ev
en if I could care less if I die, but maybe that will also change. Will I wake up one day and see a bottle of pills or a sharp knife or a gas oven or a fast bus or an overpass or…will nothingness finally pull me down for good?

  Did John and…everything…make Dally feel that gravity in the moments leading up to his death?

  One thing is for certain:

  Dally fought up until those final moments. So…I won’t stop fighting.

  Ever.

  Nothingness will have to pull harder than me.

  But…

  But it’s difficult to believe at times.

  Friends Keep Secrets

  “It’ll just be our secret, right?” Dally whispered to me as he showed me his arm. “You won’t say anything?”

  Desperation settled in my gut as I scrutinized the length of his forearm as he held his shirt sleeve up and I took in the various shades of bruises that decorated it. Dally was chewing at his lip as I looked at his arm, the fear and hesitance clouding his face. I reached out and my fingertips found his skin. I didn’t press down, knowing the bruises had to hurt, but I had to feel them for myself. I wanted to feel his skin beneath my fingers, to see if I could feel the pain and humiliation that surely radiated from his shame. Maybe my touch could take some of that from my best friend. Make him feel a little more whole. Make him feel less responsible for everything.

  “Why?”

  My voice made me feel shame. It was small. Weak.

  “I don’t know.”

  Dally’s voice was hollow.

  Shame has a flavor. I wondered what it tasted like to Dally in that moment. What did his emotions feel like in his mouth? What texture? What taste? Dally stared down at my fingertips as they traveled the length of his forearm, his eyes begging me for…anything. To make him feel whole. To make him feel less weak, less vulnerable.

  “Dally…”

  “It is what it is.” He pushed his sleeve down, effectively shoving my fingertips away with the motion.

  My hand came back to rest at my side as I knelt before him and he sat in the lotus position before me. He shoved his hands into his lap, hiding them from my sight. The weight of this moment, of seeing those blues and yellows and purple and browns made me physically sink, mimicking his seated position. Dally’s eyes lowered and he stared at the infinity of space between us as I did my best to not cry. I didn’t know how to cross that distance, to reach out and pull him back from the abyss he was falling down.

  “I’m so sorry, Dally.” I breathed out.

  “You didn’t do this.” He looked up, his voice sharp, his eyes warning me. “Stop apologizing for everything.”

  “I know I didn’t do it.” I snapped back.

  That’s the thing about two people—and only two people—who experienced what we had experienced together. One is the victim and one feels as though they should have been the victim. One feels guilty. One feels…everything. Both people don’t know whether they hate each other or love each other even more than they did before. Does the trauma bring them closer together, feel more protective of each other, more attentive to each other’s needs? Or does it create an infinity of space between them that isn’t actually physical? Or does it do everything? Does trauma of that magnitude create a coin whereupon one side is hate and the other is love?

  “What do you want me to do?” I held my hands out, pleading.

  “I want you to tell me that it didn’t happen.” His mouth was tight, holding back the sob that I knew his body wanted to expel. “I want you to tell me everything will be all right. I want you to tell me you love me.”

  “I love you.” I said.

  “I love you, too.” He responded.

  “It didn’t happen. Everything will be all right.” I added.

  “Liar.” His head rose in defiance.

  “I know.” I nodded slowly. “But I do love you.”

  “What can make this better, Tom?” He looked down, whispering his rhetorical question into that mass of infinity.

  “I don’t like it when you do this.”

  “I don’t like it when I do this either.”

  “I’m tired of feeling everything.” He whispered as we sat across from each other there on his bedroom floor in the early morning hours. “I’m tired of feeling like…I’m just tired of feeling.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that.

  “What do you feel?” He looked up at me, tears threatening to spill forth.

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you think if…if John goes to jail that it will be like a magic spell or beans or potion?” He asked. “Will it make everything better suddenly?”

  I shrugged.

  “What if he died?”

  I stared at him.

  “What if someone bashed his fucking head in until you couldn’t even recognize him as human anymore?”

  “Don’t say that, Dally.” I shook my head. “John being murdered is not the way to—"

  “I’m fucking angry!” Dally bellowed, unconcerned with waking his parents.

  They’d had a hard day. Mine and Dally’s day hadn’t been great either. But we were still awake. We didn’t have the luxury of drifting off to sleep. Because this was our trauma.

  “I know.”

  “You don’t know how angry I am, Tom.” He seethed. “If I could…if I could, I would wrap my hands around his throat and fucking stare him in the eyes as I choked the fucking life out of him. I would make it hurt. I would make him feel everything I feel.”

  “Dally…”

  “I would make him sorrier than he’s ever been in his life, Tom.” Dally growled, spit flying from his mouth. “And, right before he died, I would ask that motherfucker how everything feels. But he’d never get to answer. I would want him to go to fucking Hell with that answer on his fucking tongue. I would want him to live with that in his final fucking moments and the rest of eternity. I want him dead.”

  What does one say to that?

  “And I wouldn’t feel bad about it for one second either.” Dally spat. “So, don’t bother telling me how that would make me as bad as him. I don’t want to hear that shit from you. I don’t want to hear you say that John is a monster and he’s going to jail and that’s justice. Because it’s not, Tom. It’s not fucking anything. It’s not even close to what he deserves. That piece of shit deserves to be raped, stabbed, beaten up, his fucking eyes gouged out, pissed on, his fucking dick chopped off and fed to him, and then be stomped to death slowly. I want that motherfucker to have…”

  No sound came from me, but tears poured from my eyes as I stared at my friend, sitting there, clenching his fists in his lap and spewing venom. Dally saw the first tears fall and his expression changed immediately. His anger turned to sadness as I started to cry and then he was suddenly reaching out to me, pulling me towards him.

  “Tom.” He sighed. “Oh, Tom, I’m so sorry, man. I didn’t mean to…fucking shit, I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t know anything anymore, Dally.” I breathed into his neck as he held me against him. “I can’t feel anything anymore. I don’t know how to help you. I want to take all of this away from you so fucking bad. I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “Hey.” He took my face in his hands and made me look at him, my face inches from his. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry. I’ll stop, okay?”

  Then he pressed his lips against mine and I kissed him back. His lips slid from mine and he kissed my cheeks, where my tears trailed down, kissed my forehead, then his lips were on mine again. I wrapped my arms around him and held him as we kissed each other there on the floor of his bedroom.

  “Do you want to…” Dally whispered against my mouth, his eyes closed.

  I shrugged.

  “Will it make you feel better?” he whispered again.

  “I don’t know.” I shook my head.

  “Should we just see what happens?” He asked.

  I nodded, our noses rubbing against each other’s with the movement. Dally opened his eyes to make sure
that I was serious, then leaned in to kiss me again, our eyes not closing this time. Gently, in an effort to bring comfort to at least one of us, the two of us kissed and stared into each other’s souls. I pulled away from Dally and gently took his arm in my hands. My eyes didn’t leave Dally as I pushed his sleeve up again. And, even as my lips kissed his hand, the inside of his wrist, the inside of his forearm, up the entire length of his bruised and battered arm, I kept my eyes on his.

  Dally shivered as my eyes left his and I reached to pull his shirt up over his head. Then I pushed Dally back gently, coming to kneel over him. And my lips found every bruise on his arms, chest, and stomach that I could see. Later, we laid on his bedroom floor, his head on my chest and his arms wrapped around my middle. I gave the top of his head a kiss and then thought about drifting off as I wrapped my arms around him, too, my eyes hot with tears.

  “Dally.” I whispered. “I need to tell you something.”

  “What is it?” He whispered back.

  And I told a truth.

  A truth that did more damage than any lie ever would.

  A Hole Can Never Be Filled

  Dally’s grave was just a plot of Earth that had once been dug up, a coffin thrown in, and then refilled. It meant nothing to me. But I went and sat there every week before group and wondered if that would be the day that I would feel Dally with me again. Maybe if I sat near his grave and thought of him, or maybe talked to him, I’d have a moment where I could swear that I smelled him on the wind or felt his hand on my shoulder or just sensed that he was nearby. But every time I went to sit at his gravesite, I felt nothing.

  Something that grown ups never tell you when you yourself are growing up is that death is just an end. Sure, a lot of us are taught religion and/or spirituality and how death is the beginning of a new adventure—of life eternal with our savior or God or…whatever. Maybe it’s not the absolute final destination for those who have died. But it’s the end for those who are left behind. There’s no more memaw or papaw or mom or dad or brother or sister or cousin or…whomever it is that you’ve lost. And there was no more Dally for me. He became a part of that nothing. That gaping hole in my chest that could never be filled in like his grave had been.