Quetzalcoatl Pt. 02

"I have to leave now."

He looks up at me.

"Are you sure? I don't want you to go."

"I'd stay if I could, but it's out of my hands. I'm sorry."

Foxie pushes his face into my chest.

"I'll miss you, Daddy."

"I'll miss you too. Just know this: I love you. I love you with everything I have, and that love will live on in my heart forever."

I hold his beautiful face and kiss Foxie one last time.

"Goodbye, Foxie."

He smiles shakily before he answers.

"Goodbye, Eros."

Foxie disappears. I wipe away my tears for a minute before Quetzalcoatl returns.

"This is the end. It's time for you to wake up."

He too leaves, and a door appears before me. I know where it leads.

It's still true that I don't want this dream to end. It's still true that more than anything I want to go back to the life I had before. But now I know that isn't an option. The door is more of a formality than anything. Even if I don't go through it I'll still wake up soon.

I decide that if all of this is going to end I might as well end it on my own terms.

I open the door and am met with the cold, endless dark of the unknown.

I step through.

*****

My eyes open. I know where I am. I know who I am.

I'm not Eros, the beautiful, happy man living in paradise.

I was never him.

I'm Eric, the unemployed alcoholic loser, no longer young and fully prepared to die today. The horrible truth of my life crashes into me for the first time in what feels like a year.

It's been a while since I last cried. At some point tears seemed unneeded, unnecessary in such a sad life. It's not like crying ever made things get better, so why bother? Now the floodgates are open and I feel like I'm drowning.

Why did I do that? Why did I provide myself with so much happiness when it would all just get taken away?

I hate myself.

I want to die.

A long time ago I stopped fearing death. I'm at a point where it seems better than the worthless life I'm living. I was 100% all-in on today being the day I'd end it all. I quit my job. I picked out a bridge I knew would do the deed. I even bought an expensive aged whiskey so I could have one last drink before I jumped.

But now I know there's a not insignificant part of me that still wants to live.

Why? What's the point? I'm so far gone by now. I have nothing left. If I don't die today, the life ahead of me is going to be painful. Much more painful than jumping off a bridge. Why is any part of me still holding on, then?

You want happiness. You want to help others. You don't want to die. Those all sound like powerful truths.

They also sound like foolish hopes right about now.

It always pissed me off how in all the stories I've heard about characters that come back from wanting to kill themselves there are always other people they can rely on. Friends, family, and lovers they can confide in and go to, people who'll aid in their recovery. That's not always how it works.

I have nobody. The only person I've ever had is long since dead.

For some reason I remember something Mom had told me. I can't remember when it was, it had to be years ago. But I'll always remember those words.

One thing I want you to know is that you always, always, always have the ability to do the right thing. It's not always the easy choice. It's not always the smartest choice. Sometimes it's the worst choice you can make in the short term. But the choice is always there. And you can always take it.

I'm not sure why that came to mind. That's obviously about helping others and taking the high road even if it's hard...right?

Can you extend that same love and compassion to yourself?

Even if I don't die today, I'm still going to be struggling. I'm still going to be miserable, and I'm still going to be alone. For a long time, I'll have nobody but myself.

Am I going to be enough?

At this point I'm planning to kill myself to achieve the same goal I had when my mind created that dream: to escape my life. The biggest difference is that this time the escape isn't going to be temporary. It's going to last.

Forever.

Maybe I've been lying to myself. Maybe I am a little scared of death. But I know that I'm also truly, deeply afraid of living.

Today I have a choice. A choice about what I'm going to do when I get out of this bed. That decision will be mine and mine alone.

Those words play in my head again.

You want happiness. You want to help others. You don't want to die.

I say them out loud, just to know how they'll make me feel.

"I want happiness. I want to help others. I don't want to die."

My voice sounds weak, unsure, and sad.

Do I sound like I believe that?

No. Not really.

Do I sound like I want to believe that, though?

That I can't say.

It feels like I spend centuries in that bed, lost in my thoughts.

I keep going back to those words.

I want happiness. I want to help others. I don't want to die.

After an eternity, I get to my feet.

*****

Two years later

*****

I hear my front door open and close.

"Hey babe, I'm back!"

I get to my feet and go to Armie. He's still in uniform from his retail job.

Armie, short for Armando, is a man I met at Alcoholics Anonymous a little less than a year ago. Aside from being a few years younger than me and being gay instead of bi, we have a lot in common and hit it off. The two of us have been dating for nine months or so by now.

I can hear Sheepa come up as well. That name is short for Xipetotec, a Mesoamerican god, but for the sake of simplicity everyone mostly calls him Sheepa. That Australian shepherd mix was the MVP during the first year of trying to get my life back together. No matter how sad I became, no matter how much I wanted to give up, he was always there. And he liked having me around. I could always remember that. Rescuing him was one of the best decisions I've ever made.

As the three of us get settled on the couch Armie sees my laptop on the coffee table, open to a word processor.

"Is that the book?"

"It is."

"When are you going to let me read it?"

"Maybe later. Maybe never. I don't know yet."

Recently I decided to write a story based on that dream I had two years ago, mostly just to organize my thoughts. Even after all this time I remember so much about my life as Eros, almost like it was a year spent living abroad instead of a dream. I've told Armie that I'm writing something, but I haven't provided many details and I don't plan on sharing it much when I'm done. There are some things I want to keep to myself.

"When does your shift start?"

I pull out my phone and check the time.

"Two hours." It's not fun working the night shift at a grocery store, but it pays the bills. Well, half of the bills ever since Armie moved in.

"Let's have dinner then."

We make something quickly and eat, talking to each other about our days. We have very different schedules, so we do what we can to cherish the time we spend together.

After our meal we lay in bed for a while. I'm staring at the ceiling, which is apparently a habit of mine according to Armie, when I hear my lover's voice.

"Have you been doing okay lately?"

No matter how much I wish it could be otherwise, depression doesn't go away, no matter how much progress one makes. A job, a dog, group therapy, sobriety, and a boyfriend all help, but there are still days when I stumble.

"I've been doing..." I know how much Armie hates it when I answer this question on autopilot, so I stop and consider before I finish. "Good enough."

"Anything I can do to help?"

"Just keep being yourself. That's all I'll ever ask of you."

Armie hugs me tightly.

"Eric?"

"Yeah, baby?

"Do you know I thank God every day that we found each other?"

"No." I could have guessed that, though. I'm honestly indifferent towards religion, but Armie is very much into his beliefs and sometimes asks me to go with him to the queer-friendly church he found years ago. I might take him up on that offer eventually.

"Well, I do. I'm so happy I found you."

"Thanks. I'm happy we found each other, too."

That's an understatement. I like to believe that in my recovery I won the personal victory first. Given that I was alone at the beginning, that makes sense, but my journey is still an ongoing battle. He's helped me more than I can say.

My lover kisses my lips.

"I love you, Eric."

"I love you, Armie."

It approaches the time I should start preparing to leave so I head to the bathroom to turn on the shower. When I remove my shirt I take a moment, like I always do, to look at the tattoo I have on my right arm.

I got it about a year ago, right around the point I dared to believe there really might be light at the end of this tunnel. It's mirrored, so it's for me more than it is for anyone else.

In bold letters it says three sentences. They're based on those "truths" I learned in that dream, but I changed the wording to make them feel a little stronger.

A little more hopeful.

I WILL NEVER STOP PURSUING HAPPINESS.

I WILL ALWAYS STRIVE TO HELP AND LOVE OTHERS.

I WILL LIVE MY LIFE.

*****

Author's nate:

The intention of this story is not to trivialize, oversimplify, or "fix" suicidal depression. While I hope this can make people happy or show them a new perspective, first and foremost I wrote this story for myself. All the same, I will tell anyone who's willing to listen that their life is worth living.