Mental health in young people. The topic we’ve all heard of a million times. Glorified in the media or down right entirely misrepresented. It feels like the teenage condition to never feel understood. If films are anything to go by, mental illness is supposed to disappear as soon as you hit 20. Here is a tale of a 24 year old. It is not too sad or condescending or gritty. It is simply what happened. A pure memory.
She was unhappy and I knew that . She told me one night that it would be her last of freedom . She was going to place her self into a psychiatric facility. That or simply beg a hospital to save her . I promised to look after her until it was time . I would make her vegi fish-finger sandwiches and keep her company while she smoked cigarettes. I let her nap in my bed when hers was too hot or too cold . I would sit in the kitchen while she slept. Content knowing that she was at peace .
After I finished work I would find her sat on the bench. Cigarette in hand. I would rant and rant about petty problems at work and annoying coworkers. I would tell her about everything and nothing and listen as she did the same .
On her final night, we decided to celebrate. To celebrate the recklessness of youth and to celebrate her. We drank and laughed and shouted. I found a single cigar that I insisted we smoke . I tried and tried to light it . I wanted some kind of embellishment I think . I wanted something memorable, to send her off in high spirits . Over and over again I tried to light it until my fingers became mottled and laced with grazes.
She told me not to worry . To give up . We didn’t need it and it would probably taste gross any how. But I couldn’t help it . I grew obsessive with the idea . I so badly wanted to give her some kind of cinematic night. Seizing control of her life back. I wanted her to enter this chapter of healing with positivity in spite of the horror stories we had both heard of such places . Even more though , as selfish as it was , I knew I would miss her . I would miss her falling asleep in my room when she couldn’t be bothered to walk back to her own or when I would demand she stay and hang out with me until we both collapsed into a heap of blankets and hoodies. I knew that if I just kept that night going , that maybe I wouldn’t have to be haunted by the idea of her deteriorating in a hospital cell. Perhaps unknowingly I simply wanted to show her how good things could be. This all materialised in the form of an unlightable cigar.
That night we laughed like children. We found an old cash till on the pavement and committed to the task of opening it. We scoured the area for the missing key. In drunken mischief we imagined the riches that could be hiding within this machine. I remember her hauling it back to our flats as I giggled and ran. I wish I could view the spectacle as a passerby. Looking on at the two girls running around the streets of london, hauling a till that looked to be from the 90s. Clutching it to her chest as though it was gold.
The night ended well, sunlight pierced through our eyelids the next morning welcoming headaches and foul tasting mouths. She never went to the psych ward. She couldn't afford the time off work. Vet bills took priority.
There are no pretty words to disguise that premise or make it sound romantic. The girl couldn't get help. It wasn't fair.
I want to display photos of her smile here . The big toothy grin she would rarely share. Or even the cheeky one that would creep up from behind her specs. I would love to add one of her curled up in my bed . But the words I’ve written, I doubt she wants to relive , let alone publicly associate with .
I don’t know where she is now . Or how she’s doing . I suppose it’s because I never asked . I still, never ask . I fear that I wrote myself to be a kinder person than I am , for I am not . I am not some philanthropist , I am simply an artist with an ego . An artist with no medium . An artist with too much time on her hands . Or perhaps a pretentious twit . That one sounds more accurate .
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