The devil in me

The ringing of the phone was a physical jolt, a siren against the stillness of the apartment. It was his mother. He knew what she would ask. How are you? What have you been up to? Simple questions, yet they felt like impossible equations. The truth, if he were to say it, was a black hole of exhaustion, a mind so devoid of thought that even the simplest words felt like a monumental effort. He knew he couldn't answer honestly. He knew the pain in his voice would be heard, and then he would have to explain. He couldn't. He didn't have the words, and he had learned that people who didn't understand the unseen wounds would only recoil from them.

He let the call go to voicemail. He was a master of avoidance now. He had once been a man who spoke easily, a man with a joke for every occasion. Now, silence was his only safe space. It was a choice he made for others, more than for himself. If they don’t see me, I can’t disappoint them. I can’t hurt them. I can’t be a burden.

But sometimes, the avoidance was not an option. A text from his sister: Coming over to drop something off. Will be there in 10. Panic, cold and sharp, seized him. The invisible walls he had built around himself were about to be breached. He didn't have the energy to put on the mask of "okay." He barely had the energy to breathe.

She arrived, her bright, worried face in stark contrast to the gloom he lived in. She made small talk. He tried to respond, but his thoughts were a scrambled mess. His mind, as he had come to know, was a rock at the bottom of a deep well, heavy and unmoving. All he could feel was the raw pain, the same he felt every morning, and the shame that came with it.

Finally, she asked, "Are you alright? You seem… distant."

The question, meant to be an invitation, felt like an accusation. His control, the thin veneer he had tried to maintain, snapped. "I'm fine," he snapped, the words coming out sharper than he intended, his voice a low growl of frustration. "Just tired."

The air between them changed. Her shoulders drooped, her smile faltered. The look in her eyes was one of confusion and hurt, and in that moment, he saw the effect of his invisible illness made visible on her face. He saw the same look he had seen in his parents’ eyes, in the faces of friends who had slowly drifted away. They couldn't see the wound, so they only saw the anger.

The shame was instant and overwhelming. "I'm so sorry," he said, the words a desperate reflex. "I'm so sorry. I didn’t mean to… I'm just… I'm sorry." The apology was not just for the moment. It was an apology for the depression, for the pain he was inflicting on her, for the burden of his very existence.

He watched her leave, her steps slower now. He felt the immense relief of being alone again, a painful kind of peace. He wasn't a bad person, but he had caused pain. He had pushed away the very thing he longed for, all because the communication felt too dangerous. He closed his eyes, his head in his hands. He didn’t want to be this person, but he didn’t know how to be anyone else. He had learned that sometimes, the only way to protect a fragile, unseen wound is to hide it, and hope that one day, you might be strong enough to show it.