Damn.
When I was a kid and wanted attention from, say, my dad, I’d dance around in front of the TV he was trying to watch. I’d never dream of slicing myself up, taking pictures of the blood and posting them all over my significant other’s social media.
But here we are, I guess.
I send her a screenshot of the message I sent his dad, and then realize I probably need to explain why he’s named the way he is in his contact profile.
Me:
His dad is saved as Sheila in my phone because he deletes his dad’s number if he sees it in there, so I had to give him a random name.
His mom is Bob.
As I write this, I realize how absurd it sounds.
Alice:
Sorry, but it’s funny.
Me:
I just listened to the whole nearly 20 minute voicemail his dad left for me, and apparently I’m a ‘whole volcano of pain’ and he ‘never wants to see me again.’
Alice:
Good. He’ll be doing you a favor.
Me:
I won’t reply, but I feel like saying, ‘When did you ever call ME and not take his word for everything? When did you ever call and offer to help get your son the support he needs?’
A few hours later, Timmy randomly sends me a clip from Saturday Night Live, as if nothing ever happened. He’s laughing in the background, and sounds demented.
I feel conflicted—I don’t want him to hurt himself. Despite everything, I care about him, and don't want him to kill himself.
It seems right to reach out just to try to keep him calm.
I don’t know if the suicide attempt was real or not.
I message him:
Me:
I do want you to know that I care about you, and I’m very glad that it seems like you are physically safe.
I update Alice, feeling uneasy that I reached out to him, but still feeling like it was the right thing to do.
Me:
Ugh. I hate it because I love the person, even though they might not deserve it.
Alice:
I know. But love isn’t enough for a safe relationship.
You need safety, too.
Me: