Broken. Mean. Don't Want To Be Seen. Dingy Bathrooms of Dive Bars in 2018. Part 1.

Tipsy, staring in the murky mirror. Her figure in the reflection behind me flushing the toilet. Until that moment, I think I had forgotten she was there. The locked door knob wiggled once, twice, a third time. I was annoyed. The bathroom was obviously occupied and we would be done when we were done. I didn’t actually have to go, just needed a second away from the crowd. Forgotten she had followed me in. It was often my safe place, the bathroom. A place that made the most sense when I was with friends. No one ever questioned the bathroom. No one ever counted the number of times I snuck off. Maybe they assumed it was the alcohol, not realizing I nursed my drinks, afraid of the effects. The reality was my fuse had become shorter and I could only deal with being around people in small increments before I felt like I might explode. Always sneaking away to take a deep breath and talk myself off the invisible ledge. A vicious cycle of tiny rooms in bars that smelled of alcohol-saturated piss that missed the toilet and dried on the floor. My safe place; The fucking bathroom.

I didn’t realize she was staring now, her eyes locking with mine in the mirror. Her mouth was moving, but I hadn’t heard a word she said. I snapped back to reality and pretended I was fine, applied more lipstick, but I could tell she knew. Her eyes were tearing up now and I wasn’t sure what had tipped her off to my inner demons in that moment. And then the goddam door knob jingled again and I wanted to scream. She grabbed my shoulder and begged me to talk to her. Demanded it even. Refused to let me leave without letting her into my head. 

Fuck them, she said, nodding her head towards the door, referring to whoever the fuck was giving us reminders they were waiting. 

Talk to me, please, she pleaded. 

You know I can’t lose you, she reminded me. 

And that was it… My throat caught flame because I knew what she meant. And she knew that I knew. That’s why she had said it. She was scared of losing me. She needed me to know what it would do to her. To our friends. To my brother. And then I remembered my brothers exact words to me after CJ had died, when I had started to slip away. His voice had cracked just the slightest when he told me and I knew he had meant it.

If you go, I go, he had told me. So you better not fucking go, he said with a mixture of anger and grief. If you go, I go he repeated slowly. And that was that. I couldn’t let him do that. He had unknowingly made me the guardian of his life with that simple statement and all I had to do to protect it was keep myself alive. Because like he said. If I went, he would follow. And that would kill me more than death itself. So there I was in that dingy bathroom. Holding back my tears. Swallowing down the flames and forcing myself to breathe… Just breeeathe. Because my dear friend was reminding me of all the other lives I would take with me if I chose to take my own. So without saying a word, I took a deep breath and unlocked the door.