Pilot Season

INT. ERNIE’S BEDROOM - DAY

Ernie’s bedroom is moderately sized. Movie and sitcom posters cover the walls. On the stand next to his bed are multiple crushed empty bar cans, a half empty bottle of bourbon, and an oversized black dildo. Ernie lies on his bed face down with his laptop closed next to him.

There’s a knock at the door. Jeremy and Vernon crack open his door and stand in the doorway.

JEREMY

Hey budddddddy. How ya feeling? Doing better?

ERNIE

[muffled, into his pillow] I’m not hungover; I’m just sad.

JEREMY

We know, buddy. We know. It’s just that… well, it’s been like two months.

ERNIE

Seven weeks, two days, thirteen hours, and twenty-one minutes. It’s my new hobby.

JEREMY

Yeah, but don’t you have a better hobby that would actually take your mind of that?

VERNON

Motherfucker, write something for us already! Ya sad fuck!

JEREMY

What Vernon is trying to say is that your actor friends would like to get this Youtube thing off the ground. You know so we can get our names out there.

VERNON

Yeah, I’m tryna get my dick sucked and pulling up our bomb ass video with mad views on my phone is definitely gonna help.

JEREMY

Relax, you know he doesn’t like pressure.

VERNON

Jeremy, this lazy fuck should have had something for us even before Jason left!

JEREMY

Hey, he can’t help his depression. It comes in waves, and [whispers] thou who shall not be named [regular voice] abandoning us sure didn’t help. Although I’m sure all the drinking Ernie’s been doing isn’t helping.

ERNIE

[turning over] Stop talking about me like I’m not here. And we basically live in a frat house; how do you expect me to not be constantly drunk?

VERNON

Well if you were not drunk or depressed long enough to write us some good shit, we wouldn’t be harassing you.

ERNIE

Joke’s on you, I have been writing stuff. I just don’t like any of it. Also none of them are finished. I kind of just keep starting and stopping and moving on ‘cause it’s all shit. All shit. Just like me.

[Ernie turns onto his stomach again and pulls a pillow over his head. Jeremy sits on his bed while Vernon walks more into the room but hovers close to the door.]

JEREMY

Hey, hey. Ernie, I’m sure it’s good stuff. Your brain’s probably just playing tricks with you. What do you call that guy again?

ERNIE

Clarence.

JEREMY

Right, Clarence is just making you see the wackness when you need to be seeing the dopeness.

VERNON

Yeah, fuck Clarence!

ERNIE

Don’t use one of my favorite movies on me. [pause] Fine. You’re probably right.

JEREMY

I know I am. Now…

[Jeremy eyes Ernie’s laptop and reaches for it.]

...if me and Vernon could just take a peek at a few of them.

[Ernie snatches his laptop and tucks it under his chest.]

ERNIE

Hell no.

VERNON

Oh, come on! Just let us look at ‘em so we can tell you which one we like so you can work on it more and we can make you the next Donald Glover or whatever.

ERNIE

[poking his head up] Oh. Well, when you put it that way.

[Ernie sits up and hands his laptop over to Jeremy. He then reaches for the bottle of bourbon, taking sips from it intermittently.]

JEREMY

Thank you. What’s your password again?

[Ernie leans to whisper in Jeremy’s ear.]

VERNON

Oh, fuck you too, Ernie.

JEREMY

Alright, I’m assuming they’re all in this folder labeled “You Worthless Fuck”?

ERNIE

No, that’s basically my Burnbook, I mean journal folder. You want “What Is This Shit?”

JEREMY

Ah, true. Makes sense. Alright we’ve got three scripts in here. Not bad, man. Ok, first one up: Earnestly Ernest.

VERNON

That title sucks.

JEREMY

You’re not helping.

[Jeremy skims the document.]

Um… ok, it’s only one scene and it’s basically what I’m assuming is a word-for-word retelling of the last conversation you had with Ja-- I mean, some guy we used to know. You sure this one shouldn’t be in the “Fuck” folder?

ERNIE

It has some worth, I think. Also, it’s not word for word. I cleaned up the language a lot.

JEREMY

Mm, well, still, I feel like this might be a little too fresh for us to work on now.

ERNIE

You are correct, sir.

JEREMY

Alright, next one: Feels.

VERNON

You’re really in touch with your emotions, huh there, buddy? What’s this one, a bunch of people sitting around in a circle bitching about their problems with Ernie’s usual snark through in?

JEREMY

Actually, this one’s about a pink monster that runs around demanding hugs from everyone. Imagine a Barney-sized Ditto that doesn’t have boundaries. It’d be kind of sweet if it didn’t come off a little rape-y.

ERNIE

It’s not rape-y, it’s needy. It has a huge yearning for the human touch.

JEREMY

Yeah, but he just goes up to everyone and doesn’t ask their consent.

ERNIE

He’s a bad communicator!

JEREMY

Well, he’d have to be more of a villain than a sympathetic character.

ERNIE

Mmm, agree to disagree.

[Ernie takes a large swig of bourbon. Vernon reaches out for the bottle. Ernie hesitantly hands it over. Vernon takes a swig and hands the bottle back.]

JEREMY

Oh shit. Ernie, I like this Kept Man one though. Do you think you can break it up?

ERNIE

No, that’s definitely more of an one-man piece. I kind of wrote it with you in mind, Jeremy.

JEREMY

Really? Oh buddy, you shouldn’t have. This is brilliant. Honestly.

VERNON

Whoa whoa whoa. No way am I gonna let Jeremy be the breakout star; if anyone deserves a one man show, it’s me.

JEREMY

Vernon, relax. We obviously can’t open our channel with just me. It’s gonna be something ensembly. Besides, this would set the bar waaaay too high for us.

[Jeremy smirks at Ernie who smirks back.]

VERNON

Ugh, you two are gross. Just bang already.

[Ernie takes another swig from the bottle and looks away from Jeremy.]

So what are we gonna do? We still don’t have shit.

JEREMY

Ernie, do you think you could work on a couple more scripts? I think I have an idea or two to toss your way.

ERNIE

I don’t know. I was hoping to wallow in my own filth a little more, but I guess I can clean up my act a bit.

JEREMY

Perfect. Vernon, makes us some breakfast! Ernie and I are gonna workshop some.

VERNON

It’s basically brunch at this point.

ERNIE

Yes, I’ll take a mimosa, please.

[Vernon rolls his eyes as he snatches the bottle from Ernie and takes another sip. He throws the bottle back on the bed and leaves the room while Ernie and Jeremy begin to hatch out a plan of action.]

Finding Ourselves

Day 3 - Post Dinnertime

It’ll be 72 hours by the time I wake up tomorrow, but the doctors still tell me they don’t feel sure letting me out yet. Something about not having come to a firm diagnosis yet. I can apply for self-release, but it’d just take another 48 hours to go through, plus it’s the weekend. I’m having regrets about agreeing to “admit myself,” but the school seemed like they’d force me anyway.

My parents are still around, which is nice, I guess. My dad still doesn’t know how to talk to me, but it’s cool he’s trying even though the ward definitely creeps him out. If anything, this experience has brought me closer to my mother. I keep waiting to be disappointed when she says she hopes the doctors can cure me of my other “issues,” but she hasn’t yet. So maybe she’s coming around.

They’re leaving for their hotel soon, which means I’ll be bored again. I’m still the youngest one here by almost 15 years. Everyone’s either keeping to themselves or too zonked out to hold a conversation. Well, Stacy and Laverne are ok, but I can only take their gossip about their lives on the outside for so long. We get it, your husbands drove you insane because you let them convince you to be stay-at-home mothers instead of allowing you to pursue your careers. I mean, it can’t be that hard to pick yourself up at 50, can it? God, I hope not.

Day 4 - Lunchtime

Malcolm had a breakthrough in Group today. Well, maybe it was more of a freakout; he did pick up and slam a chair on the ground and then lunge at Dr. Strubert, but he was pretty emotionless before then. Now he’s in what I would call solitary confinement for the rest of the day, so I’ll have the room to myself tonight.

Lunch today is a turkey sandwich with a peach cup and cold soup. They serve me two more pills with names I don’t care to pronounce right. I’m not looking forward to these actually kicking in. I just want my iPod back.

Day 4 - Post Dinnertime

My parents didn’t show up tonight. They had to drive back up to Pittsburgh because they have work tomorrow. I thought they would have made an appearance in the AM, but I guess visiting hours are a small window. I hope they’re okay.

I wasn’t as bored tonight as I’ve been the last few days, though. A new kid was admitted a little after lunch: Jeremy. He’s around my age, maybe even actually my age. The only thing is that he’s a total zombie. His mother said he overdosed two nights ago and hasn’t been totally right since he woke up. I wanted to ask what he took too much of, but I wouldn’t have recognized the name anyway.

Well, a brain-dead friend’s better than no friend. His mother said he liked puzzles, so I pulled out a 100-piecer I had my eye on for a while. His five o’clock shadow gave his pale face some character when he smirked at the picture on the box: Finn and Jake riding Lady Rainicorn. I asked him if he liked the show; he nodded. I guessed he’d be mute, but then he read my name tag aloud. I covered it and corrected him with the name I’m testing out this month: Natalie. Jeremy and his mother squinted at me, but he understood before his mother did. He placed his hand on mind when I reached for a corner piece, even at his turtle’s pace. I looked into his dead green eyes and I could tell he was alright with me.

I don’t know why I corrected them. I still haven’t told the other patients to call me Natalie. Maybe it’s because I panicked when the first guy greeted me as Dick when I was given my gowns, or when the doctors introduced me by my birth name without asking me what I wanted to be referred as. Which I don’t understand, because my name has so many nicknames, you’d figure every professional would check with you first. But I was still out of it, lost in a depressed fog, completely checked out and submissive. Maybe Jeremy can help me reintroduce myself when he gets better, if he remembers any of this. At the very least, I can help him until he does. I need a friend in here, and his stringy brown hair is kind of cute when it covers his face.

I Want to Live, I Promise (Mental Health Awareness Month)

I honestly forget not everyone thinks of killing themselves. For me, suicidal thoughts are as frequent- but not as consistent - as menstruation. Maybe if it were, I'd have a better grip on it.

I forget whether it was during high school or college, but at some point, my cousin filled the gap in my hip hop knowledge with Notorious B.I.G.'s Ready to Die. She told me her favorite song was Everyday Struggle which starts with the chorus "I don't wanna live no more/sometimes I hear death knockin at my front door/I'm leaving everyday like a hustle, another drug to juggle/another day, another struggle." Beside the pusherman aspect, I related to the song as well, and it quickly became my favorite.

Everyday is truly a struggle. Some more so than others. Like knowing you should get out of bed and go to work but recognizing that even if you do you'll be useless or a danger to yourself because you might have to handle a piece of machinery and have a quick second of weakness. It only takes a second to die, you think, you can't stop yourself if you just do it fast before --.

So you call out of work and lie in bed on your phone until you get enough strength to watch self-aware cartoon characters.

But like I said, some days are easier. Those lightly days you just quit in the middle of a game with your close friends because you figure this is pointless, I'd rather do something productive like sulk in my room until I can be around people again.

I can't say I understood what I was doing until I watched FX's Legion. Without giving too much away, the main character is one of the strongest mutants ever but is convinced he is mentally ill. Whether he is or not is still to be determined, but it is discovered that he actually has a "parasite" burrowed into his psyche that has been trying to take over. Occasionally it tries to get the main character to kill himself. That's more or less what depression/suicide feel like for me.

So, let's give my parasite a name. This is actually a new exercise I'm trying out live [recorded on delay] with you all, my dear friends (and associates). Let's see, I'm gay and it's trying to screw me out of existence, so it definitely needs a male name. Eustace. Yeah, that works; I don't personally know any Eustaces.

One of Eustace's favorite pastimes is making me lose friends. He first did this the summer/fall of my college senior year. He told my high school best friend that we didn't need his moppy IMs/texts because we had other gay guys to talk to, and he exposed another close friend as a cheater knowing it would forever drive us apart. He was successful in both endeavors. Although I had other friends, they were - at the time - the two I talked the most openly with. And with my mother already shut out, also his doing, I was alone with my thoughts the way he wanted. Because Eustace is my thoughts, at least an extension of them. It's easier for him to direct me with no one else to sway me. And if everyone's upset or doesn't care about me, it's easier for him to tell me to fall down a flight of stairs or stab myself with a pair of scissors I'm using to design a prop for a karaoke performance.

I realize how alarming the last paragraph is. Don't worry, I've been admitted to a hospital before I could inflict damage upon myself (see: blog post).

I'm impressed that I'm this self aware of the hold Eustace has on me with having any professional help. I'm glad I've developed strategies to keep me alive. I'm appreciative to the friends I have around me, especially the ones I've talked to about this. Obviously he still takes hold of me. He almost kept me from blogging today. But if I sit still and breathe long enough, I can usually get through the blockades he sets up.

Thank you to all of you reading this now. I think giving him a name will help me scare him away. I guess I have a real personality to add to all the fake ones I made up as a high schooler.

Word.

Mental Health and Me

If you're a social media fiend like I am, you've probably noticed Buzzfeed instituted a Mental Health Week. The official Mental Health Awareness "Week" is October 2-10, but I understand. Mental illnesses are still occasionally dismissed as something you can just shake off, and the more opportunities we have to educate others the better.

I wouldn't say I'm without a doubt a "person suffering from depression," but I was prescribed medication to treat it for a while. So, if you don't mind being bummed out for a few minutes, I'd like to tell you about my first battle with depression. Maybe my second as well, but that one's a doozy and I might wanna save it for my memoir someday. We'll see if I can get through the first one without getting upset.

My senior year of college, I took my second psychology course. I withdrew from my first, so this was 101. I already felt bad enough being in a class of freshmen, but I wasn't the only senior who waited to fulfill all of their core class requirements. For this course, we were allowed extra credit in the form of participating in studies conducted by graduate students. I found psychology interesting, but I wasn't going allow my inability to focus during studying to prohibit me from passing.

I signed up for a graduate student's mental health questionnaire. I was assured the results would remain private, so I answered honestly. I had being keeping plenty of things pent up after losing two best friends over squabbles. I admitted to possibly feeling depressed and having thoughts of suicide. At the time I thought, hey, who doesn't think of climbing to the roof of the student center and jumping off so they don't have to deal with the stress of what to do after college.

Two or three weeks went by as I continued my secret life of unworthiness. The second Thursday of November I was called into the Counseling Center. I didn't even know where it was. After realizing it was located under the Writing Major Lounge, I met with a woman who told me the grad student I met with reported me as a possible threat to myself. I was upset but not by much. It was kind of a relief to have my thoughts out in the open. The dread came when she suggested I leave to seek treatment at a mental ward. Ok, she probably called it a psychiatric hospital, but toddlers don't hear "nap," they hear "no more fun for you."

I'm not sure why, but after three minutes of talking, I agreed to go to [hospital name redacted] for a weekend. I called my mother; I could hear her trying to restrain her shock through supportive words. My roommate retrieved my laptop, ipod, and a change of clothes and I was off.

Of course, I wasn't allowed to use my laptop or ipod while in treatment. "No outside contact or stress allowed," they told me. I didn't have the energy to tell them writing and music are how I stay sane. Luckily, I wrote a log of my stay in a tiny notebook. That information is definitely for the memoir. However, I will tell you an overview of my experience:

• The food sucked. 
• The other patients were varying levels of crazy. 
• Not being able to be goofy, as I am prone to be, for fear of being labeled crazier made me more depressed. 
• Everything seemed grayscale or sepia depending on the day. 
• My parents came and made me feel better, even my father who had never been overtly emotionally available in the past. 
• I met a kid who allowed me to forget about myself as I helped with what I assumed was an overdose, though I never bothered to ask.
• I stayed way longer than I planned because self-admitting yourself doesn't actually mean you leave whenever you want.

Apparently you had to submit a request 48 hours in advance and be deemed fit enough by the doctor(s). I didn't want to deal with the stress. Eventually, I was let out on Wednesday to discover I was missed by everyone. My roommate hadn't told anyone where I was. I don't remember if I told anyone either. I do remember I gave up drinking at the request of the school - much to my 21 year old dismay - and disguised it as a challenge I already set up for myself on this blog. ....it's right (here) if you want to read it.

I readjusted well enough for the first two months, though I refused to take my meds because I could already tell what feeling nothing - no high, no low - felt like, and I hated it. Then I started drinking again, because screw them I was finally 21. Then my second major depressive episode happened. This is the good one.

It was Spring Break. I stayed on campus to work because it was still technically winter and going home was my least favorite activity. One day on the job, I was asked to disassemble a desk we had to move, but I didn't know how to competently work a power tool. I tried for what couldn't have actually been ten minutes before my boss yelled at me and gave the task to someone else. Because I was depressed and alone, I drank way too much that night. I laid in bed the next morning not hungover but feeling utterly worthless. I had already shown up late earlier in the week and been warned that I was close to being fired. So I wrote a text to my supervisor requesting that he fire me because I was a piece of trash. I remained in bed until I heard a knock at the door. It was only then that I realized the school must have informed him back in November of my status. 

I opened the door and already knew that were going to tell me to take time off from school. They recommended it after the first episode, but I told them all I was graduating on time. It turned out I was putting too much pressure on myself; I crumbled. I left the same day realizing that mental illness was real.

To this day, I have moments when getting out of bed is a struggle. As I've alluded to before, even writing - an activity that brings me joy and relief - became a chore I'd rather ignore. Luckily, I'm much more vocal, so my stress isn't as bad. But everyday is a new struggle. I get by. I'm fortunate enough to have supportive friends and family. I don't need coddling. That usually makes me feel worse, as if I'm really sick. Which I am, but I don't need to be reminded. 

Mental Health isn't textbook. I believe everyone has something that works for them; it's important to recognize that. After keeping quiet about my illness for five years, I'm just doing my part to make life a little less taboo and a bit more manageable. Every little bit helps.

Word.