I tapped my fingers against each other as my memory fought to form the rest. “Then I remember running. I saw a bridge nearby, and my feet propelled me there. I was no longer thinking about anything but stopping what was in my head. I remember turning and seeing April, but I didn’t register her. I wanted to be free of everything.”
“So what did you do?”
I closed my eyes, feeling the wind against my face as I stood at the edge of the bridge. I leaned backward and fell, the last thing I saw April’s wide eyes and open mouth as I went over. “I jumped.”
“You tried to commit suicide.”
“I decided to end the poison that I am like I should’ve years ago.”
I wanted to see my sister. I had to see her. I was going fucking crazy in here. And wasn’t that ironic since I was mental to begin with, that was why I was in this place. I’d been meeting with Dr. Viola or his partner, Dr. Grant, at least once a day for four days now. On top of that, at first, I was required to do group therapy with a few other patients and share personal shit with each other. However, after the first day when one of the patients in the group recognized me, that had been nixed. So I stared at the four walls of this goddamn room too many hours to count. I’d taken to recording my thoughts, writing music and my thoughts about my sessions on an old school recorder they’d given me since I couldn’t write. Both doctors were happy with that, yet never asked to hear it. I found it helped me work through the rampant thoughts that were always running through my head. I planned on burning the thing as soon as I could write down the music I’d written. I never wanted anyone to hear the thoughts in my head; hell, I didn’t want to hear them.
I wondered what had gotten out about what I had done. After all, I had made a complete and utter fool of myself for anyone to take video or pictures of. I’m sure I was the laughing stock of the rock community. I wondered if we’d have a band left after this. What record company wanted a wacko who’d tried to kill himself? But Jaded Regret could salvage their name if they replaced me. Many talented drummers would kill for that spot . . .
After four days of talking to these doctors and trying to analyze what I was going to do and what help I needed, I wasn’t any closer to understanding how I could attempt to take my life with little recollection of it. My memories of it were like I was a bystander watching it happen, not like I was doing it myself. I still felt like I was better off not being here, but I wasn’t going to hang myself from the rafters or anything.
Whatever cocktail of shit they had me on was good, because not only had I heard no voices, I hadn’t even flipped while talking about Robbie. My son. I had a child. I’d consented for a blood draw a few days ago, but the results didn’t need to come in for me to know he was mine. Robyn had gotten pregnant since my dumb ass hadn’t thought of protection. She had never told me. My son had lived a childhood much like mine—feeling unloved, unwanted, and suffering within his head. What would I have done if she would’ve come to me years ago? Would Robbie’s life had been different? She’d died from a drug overdose and left her child. She and I weren’t that different. She’d been unable to deal with life, just like me.
I couldn’t be a father. I wasn’t supposed to be on this earth, much less have someone else with my DNA. I’d never be what he deserved as a parent. What the hell did I know about being a father? My father had bowed out of life when I was five and Natalie was seven. So what was the alternative? I couldn’t leave Robbie in foster care and hope he had a good life. The thought of that had killed me before knowing he was mine. Now? There was no way I was okay with choosing to let my son live without me.
I’d done a lot of thinking while staring at these four walls, and I’d decided I couldn’t pursue anything with April. I needed to get my head right and figure out what to do with Robbie. As much as it broke my heart, I couldn’t ask her to not only take on my problems but the problems of my son, too. I had to get better first so I could get out of here. They were saying possibly another week or two of intensive therapy, then biweekly outside therapy once I got home.
Dr. Viola had said I could see Natalie today. I looked up at the clock and tapped my fingers on my legs. My casted hand made my tapping awkward, but thankfully I hadn’t done any serious damage that would keep me from drumming for longer than it would take to get this cast off. Several more weeks of this torture and I’d be good as new. God, I needed to play. That was our next negotiation. Drumming was as much of a part of me as breathing, and I felt suffocated without it.