I'M NOT ADRIFT | Eminem

A.N. This is incredibly depressing and focuses around suicide but I'm strangely proud of it and hope that anyone who reads this will get something out of it.

-Dedicated to the lovely Suzanne whom this chapter is based off.

I was always terrified of something.
I never knew what it was.
I woke up with it.
It followed me into my morning coffee and slipped through the cracks of my work days.
It plagued evenings and made nights impossible.
It felt like being chased.
'I have to do something'
Do what?
What for?
'I don't know... but I feel it...'

Eventually, when I'd sit in bed, too scared to get up and start contributing to society, I had to start telling myself that there was nothing.
Was I worried of time?
That's what I thought it was.
Time running out.
But why?
What did you want to accomplish before this metaphorical time ran out?
Was it death?
Was that when time ran out?
Fuck, you're twenty-seven!
Why are you worrying about that?
You won't accomplish anything spectacular anyways!
No one does.
Originality is dead, you're fine.
You'll never do anything new or special.
That should comfort you.

Or is it unfinished business?
The idea that you could walk across an intersection at the wrong time?
The person who hits you has their headlights off.
It's dark out.
You couldn't have predicted it.
You wouldn't get the 'full life lived' that elderly people could brag about like medals or rights of passage to peace.
Unless you jump off this balcony, you won't die yet.
Not in this moment.
You're fine.

Does everyone imagine plummeting to their death when their on a balcony?
Is that just hopelessly emotional teens?
Overworked minimum wake employees?
Women in their late twenties with Schizophrenia?
People plagued by depression.

Twelve years ago I asked the same.
I got an answer that day.
Right before anything really major happened.
I was at this roof-top party downtown Detroit.
It was the birthday of the only rich friend my parents knew.
I'm starting to realize how plenty of memorable moments in my life happen at parties.

I stood overlooking the artificial mountain of glass and concrete with an extravagant glass of champagne in my hand.
It was only for looks.
I was fifteen.
I also hated champagne.
I don't really know why they gave it me.
They, as in one of the waitresses the couple hired for the party.
Like I said, rich.

When I looked down at the tiny, ant sized people and questioned the familiarity of it all, it suddenly seemed strangely romantic to jump.
I refrain.
I worry about what happens after.
Not the feeling of falling.
That only excites me.
Not what death manifests as.
I know it's nothing, a blank slate.
I instead think of how my body would look obliterated and painted in the thick red liquid.
It would get all over the concrete. Not just the blood. Every part of me.
From this height.
How it would sound.
The instant impact.
The poor people around to be traumatized for the rest of their lives.
That's why I didn't jump.
In the end, I was a people pleaser.

Appearing in the corner of my eye, though not visibly acknowledged, I saw someone move into my presence.
I'd never talked to that girl before.
But she had a nostalgic smile.
It reminded me of cloves and Anise star.
It reminded me of cardamom and the delicious smell of woody colognes.
Warm and approachable.
She had lighter skin than me, though still considerably tan, the complexion of brown sugar and those sad-happy memories.

"Is it bad that when I look over the ledge, the first thing I think about is jumping?"
She asked this with an applaudable amount of confidence and humor.
If she'd asked it to anyone else, I don't know how it would have gone.
She giggled as if she didn't even care what my answer was.
She felt special the instant I knew her.