God must hate me. It is the only explanation. Maybe it's just the price I pay for leading a charmed life. Born healthy. Parents affluent enough that I never wanted for anything. Never had a broken bone or serious injury. Never succumbed to a major illness. Never had any instance of a family squabble so toxic that it tore us apart.
Great at school, always getting As and Bs. I had a real knack for learning and I enjoyed it immensely. I even threw myself into extracurricular studies and really absorbed the additional information. I had so many friends and we spent so much time together that I was surprised I had any time left. But I lost it, all of it. Why? Love. What else?
Her name is Amanda Berkowitz and she is one of the handful of us who grew up in the same neighborhood and attended the same schools. I'd known her most of my life and we were good friends. Then one day it all just changed. She was no longer the skinny girl with pigtails that used to play with me, she was a young woman with a body to die for.
I tried to approach her many times, but I couldn't find the nerve to really talk with her. I decided there was only one thing for it, drastic action was the only possible way forward. I waited till we were all seated for lunch. I didn't even touch my food. I took a hard swallow and stepped up on the table. I looked down at her, extended my hand and declared my love for her.
The room went deathly silent and the muscles in my arm were straining under the weight of the longest pause I have ever experienced in my entire life. Her face turned beet red and she ran out of the doors. I froze like a statue and only came back to life when I heard laughter erupting all around me. I got down from the table and hurried after her.
I found her leaning against the wall with her head cast downward. I asked her what was wrong and assured her we could get through it, together. She turned around, grabbed me up and put me against the opposite wall. She demanded to know what I was playing at. Why had I embarrassed her like that? Why did I think a full lunch room was the best place to reveal my feelings?
I hadn't any words to say in my defense. It all seemed so simple and natural in my head. She let go of her hostility. In a much calmer voice she told me that this was not the kind of thing you spring on someone, that it takes time and open discussion to arrive at true feelings. A relationship is something you prepare for by laying down the groundwork. You can't just expect a house to be built for you.
A heavy lump entered my stomach. I asked her how she felt about me. She took a breath. You're my friend and you will always be my friend, she said. And who knows, maybe one day I'll have feelings for you, but not this day. She gave me a hug and asked if we were good. I lied and said I was fine. She walked away, leaving me to deal with myself.
That should have been the end of the matter for the time being, but that was the day I started to hear the voices. At first they were nothing more than murmurs that had me wondering what the noise was and I would pique my ears to hear them better. But that all changed as the days passed. The voices got louder and louder till they were screaming at me and always in unison.
They give me no peace and hound me relentlessly throughout the day. Even when they aren't shouting I'm always on edge, waiting for them to start in again. They commanded me to do things I don't want to do. They want me to be violent, profane and downright disgusting. I did my best to tune them out. I even wore a pair of noise canceling earbuds.
Nothing helps. Nothing works. When they speak I can't hear anything else. It causes me to lose focus on my studies. It frustrates me, causing me to lash out at random, pushing the people of my life further and further away. Even my friends could only stand me for so long before they had to get away. I couldn't even hold a conversation with Amanda.
Eventually I was sent to the counselor, who I couldn't hear. He sent me to a therapist who I couldn't hear. I was given drugs, but each pill that didn't miraculously quiet the voices just made me angry and I would throw the whole bottle away. It must have cost my parents a fortune, but I simply didn't care.I tried again and again, but the voices just never stopped.
I need peace and I only know of one surefire way to get it. I walk downtown, enduring the screaming voices all the while with my headphones so loud I may be in danger of losing my hearing, permanently. I just keep going. Nothing can stop me. I find myself an abandoned apartment building and walk the ten flights of stairs to the roof, a journey free of the voices.
I step to the edge and the voices start again, only this time they're yelling at me not to go through with it. They want me to live and continue to shoulder their demands as I walk through life barely tolerating the force of their words and worry that one day I'll snap and become a raving lunatic doing what I can to please the voices and buy some peace for myself.
I step onto the ledge and look down at the world below. It's a good thing I'm not afraid of heights else I would never have gotten this far and would be terrified of this breathtaking view. I give myself a moment to let the wind whip around my body and cool my fevered head. I shut my eyes and let myself fall forward as I shut my eyes and let come what may.
The trip is a lot shorter than I thought it would be and I land a lot softer than I thought I would. There's an immediate churning in my stomach and I turn to the side as I vomit all over the place. My insides are burning and all my muscles feel weak. All I can do is roll around as I try desperately to find a breeze that will make me feel better.
"Sorry about that," a voice cuts through the other voices. "I don't normally like to use that particular ability and I'm sure you can see why, but you were a lot faster than I anticipated so I had no choice."
I use the little strength I have to sit up. I see a man dressed all in black sitting on the ledge, facing out, with something obscuring his face.
"Why so high," he asks as he looks over the edge. "Half this height would be sufficient for your purpose."
"What are you talking about?" I manage as I sit up and enjoy the silence in my head.
"Are you going to tell me that you didn't just now try to commit suicide?" he puts to me as he turns his head around to look at me.
"What else can I do?!" I demand, frustration lacing my words as I rise to my feet on shaky legs. "The voices never stop screaming and I just can't take it anymore!"
"Do you hear them now?" he queries as he spins his body around so he now faces me.
I listen. "No, I can't hear them," I relay and as I twist my head about to make sure they aren't just being difficult to hear. "I can't hear them!" I dance about. "I can't hear them!"
"Calm down," he directs me as he places his hands on the ledge. "It's only temporary, to give you time to think. I wish I could do something more permanent, but that's simply beyond my power."
I stop dancing. "They're coming back?" I barely utter as horror grasps my throat. "I can't deal with it anymore! It's driving me crazy! I have to make them stop!" I make ready to run and jump.
"You need to calm down," he advises me as he braces his elbows against his knees and props his head in his hands.
"Calm down!" I bark as I refocus my attention on the strange man. "You have no idea what I've been through and will go through again if I don't end it now!"
"What if you only make it worse?" he starts in as he stands up, turns around and leans his hands on the ledge. "What if you survived the fall? What if you spent the rest of your life crippled with the voices screaming in your head?"
"What would you have me do?!" I challenge as I step forward. "I can't deal with the voices for another second let alone a prolonged life!"
He turns his head toward me. "I would have you realize that the voices are nothing more than an extreme manifestation of the thoughts you repress," he posits a theory as he playfully kicks at a rock with a swinging foot.
"You have no idea what they demand I do," I throw back in a much calmer voice as I cross my arms. "I can't give in. I can never give in."
"They demand you be violent," he continues as he sets his hands on the ledge behind him. "They demand you be vulgar. And you are correct, you cannot give in."
"What other choice do I have?!" I blurt while hoping that the preternatural insight into my condition will bring with it a solution.
"You need to realize that the power of the voices comes from a misguided energy in your brain," he educates me as he stands back up. "You need to channel that energy into an activity that taxes your brain."
"You make it sound so easy," I chide him as I fix him with a hard gaze.
"I only wish it were," he remarks as he meets my stare, not as a kind of challenge, but more to the idea of understanding. "These voices will never go away. They will be your constant companion for the rest of your life. The only thing you'll be able to control, once you learn how, is the volume."
"You keep talking like you have a solution, but your words are only strengthening my argument," I point out as I fight to maintain the power of my stare.
"There is no easy solution to your problem," he remarks as he lessens his stare. "Truth be told, you're going to feel like you're pushing a boulder up a never ending incline. And there will be times that bring you back to this moment and the decision you make here."
I take a deep breath and let it out. "I'm still waiting for the part where you reveal your miraculous cure, for a limited time only," I tease him as I relax my position.
"If I had such a power, I would have used it already," he imparts the bad news as he sits down on the ledge.
"Then what good is your help?! I erupt and stamp my foot to quell some of my rage and I feel a few raindrops hit my forehead. "All you've done is interrupt my suicide and quieted the voices in my head, but you've offered me no real solutions!"
"No solution that comes from me would be sufficient for your circumstance," he carries on as he stops in front of me and the rain continues to fall. "I know this is going to sound like a cop out, but you have to find it yourself."
That is the last straw. The rage inside me is just too high not to spill over. I reel back and slug the guy right in the face. Every knuckle pops and it feels like my hand may be broken, but damn did it feel good. And I feel the rain wash over me. I look at the guy who's still rubbing his jaw. He spits blood and stands up as he prepares to speak.
I ball up my other fist and hit him again. The same sounds. The same pain. The same energy. After that I just keep going. My fists flail left and right and smash his face mercilessly. I see the blood that splatters the floor and mixes with the rain and I don't care if it's mine or his. I even start to mix it up and throw some body blows. I'm feeling such elation from the violence that I take it a step too far and he goes over the edge.
It takes me a moment to realize what had happened and when I do I hurry after. I stare down into the poorly lit street below, which is being pelted by the rain, but I see no body. Instantly, my mind flashes to my suicide attempt and the invisible power he used to save me. You must have used it to save himself as well. It is the only, albeit pathetic, reasoning I can take hold of.
The whole walk home I stare at my bloody hands. The skin is cracked. The bones of my knuckles are exposed and every inch is radiating with pain. But it is not a debilitating pain, it invigorates me and makes me feel alive. What's more, I can barely hear the voices. They're still screaming, but the volume has been turned considerably lower. And the rain clears as I enter my home.
My parents freak out when they see my hands and drive me to the emergency room as they pelt me with questions. I don't hear a single one of them. I just stare at my reflection and I'm practically crying. I see myself looking back at myself with a smile spread wide on my face. I haven't been smiling recently and I kind of miss those delightful wrinkles.
With the voices screaming in my head I had little to smile, or in general, be happy about. Everything made me angry in some way or other, especially my reflection. I would look into a mirror and the voices would scream all the louder, but I wasn't able to look away. I would gaze into the dark of my pupils and they would swallow me bit by bit.
I'm staring at my reflection and the dark isn't swallowing me up. I sit back in my seat and let the rhythm of the road lull me. We make it to the hospital and after a thirty minute wait I'm admitted into an examination room. The nurse looks over my hands which are coated in dried blood. The first thing he does is grab a plastic bristle brush and scrub my hands till all the blood is gone.
The pain is unbelievable and I can feel every plastic bristle as it brushes through my open wounds. Next comes the alcohol and iodine, both equally painful. My open sores are slathered with a substance that I'm informed will make them heal faster and keep the gauze, which is wrapped around both hands, from sticking, a slight detail I am quite happy with when it comes time to change my bandages.
The next step is an x-ray which reveals that some of my bones are cracked and have hairline fractures, but nothing to be worried about. At this point I'm asked what happen and decide to lie while staying close to the truth. I tell them that I was jumped from behind by a man wearing a ski mask and we slugged it out. He had even less experience than I did when it came to throwing fists and I was able to stay clear of his clumsy blows.
Eventually, I wore him down to the point where he ran off as best he could and I did not pursue him. I'm asked what I was doing in the city and say I was just out for a walk. My parents can tell I'm not telling the whole truth so they continue to grill me on the matter, but I stick to my story and they eventually give up, there is little more they can do given the circumstance.
It takes a full two weeks for the skin on my hands to heal, and another six weeks for my bones to finish mending, during which time I had to keep from using my hands as much as possible. All parties concerned would have preferred I just rest up, but I had a drive growing inside me that was spurred on by the voices growing louder. I kept my hands out of the equation and took to running.
I was rubbish at first and could barely clear a mile. I didn't know anything about pacing myself or controlling my breathing, but I learned about these crucial elements from the students running track. I never got anywhere near their speed and endurance, but that was never the point. I took to the streets and pumped my legs as my body filled with endorphins.
At last the wraps come off and my skin is healed, scarred but healed. I sign up for a membership at a local youth club and throw myself into all the activities they offer. I start by lifting weights and work my way up to thirty pound free-weights and bench-pressing two hundred pounds. I take to swimming, though I mostly use the resistance of the water to help build my muscles.
I play a little basketball, soccer and street hockey, but nothing satisfies me quite like boxing. Every part of it reminds me of that night in the best way possible. Wrapping my hands makes me think of my wounded hands and punching the bag makes me think of slugging that guy over and over again and it is the most satisfying feeling I've ever experienced.
The voices are quieter now so my life pretty much returns to what it once was. I bring my grade point average back up and I repair the damage I'd done in all of my relationships. I start seeing a therapist who, though not a doctor, had a long history of mental illness which he struggles with everyday. And he puts me in touch with a psychiatrist who helps me to find the right mix of medicines to deal with my illness.
I even reach out to Amanda and after some long talks we start going out. It doesn't work out between us and I soon learn that my infatuation was little more than fleeting lust. We part ways on good terms and remain friends whose relationship has reached a new level as we both pursue new romantic partners, who I turn become friends with all of our friends.
It has been years since my encounter on the roof and the voices are still with me, but they have become more manageable. Sometimes, I like to sit in the silence and listen to what they have to say, just for the fun of it, but, it's never anything good. Hurt people, hurt yourself, shout obscenities, be racist, homophobic, misogynistic, none of it is even clever.
You'd think a collection of voices who spend all day in my head would have something profound to say with as often as they shout at me. I guess that doesn't say much for me. Still, it is what it is and as my therapist is wont to say, I can only get out of it what I put into it. Sometimes, those words can be infuriating, other times it can help to drive me along.
All in all, I take life on day by day. And this day, is the day, I'm getting married. She's a wonderful girl and she doesn't mind my illness. We're closer than I have ever been with any other person and I'm including my time within my mother's belly. She just gets me and she loves boxing as much as I do. I even land a job on the side helping to teach youngsters the fundamentals of the sport.
My life is going swimmingly, so of course a monkey-wrench just has to be thrown into the gears. After returning home from a particularly grueling session with the youngsters, I return to an empty home, we both work so it's not unusual it just makes me miss her all the more, and sit myself down in my recliner. I relax as far back as it will allow and let myself drift.
The voices are at a dead murmur, which is fairly typical after a grueling workout session, until a voice that sounds very much like my own, which has never been the case before, cuts through the stillness with a single question that demands an answer: What will happen to the children you will one day have, will they have voices as well? And a follow up: Will they be just as sick as you?
The questions cut through me and leave me scattered on the floor. I sit up and hold my head. I listen for the voices, but it's nothing more than the same things they always say. I listen as hard as I can. I even dig my fingers into the sides of my head and press with all the strength I have. That voice is gone, disappeared entirely or drowned out by the rest.
I continue to search my mind as the front door opens. My wife crosses inside and walks over to me with my barely noticing. She drops to her knees and embraces me in my seated position, giving me the biggest squeeze to let me know she's there. It is at this moment that I take note of her and hug her back, she breaks far enough to look into my face. She tells me she's pregnant.
My heart drops into my chest and feels like a lead weight sitting at the bottom. She asks me what's wrong. I think to lie, but find I can't. I tell her about the voice and the question. She sits back on her heels and lowers her eyes. We both sit in silence for several minutes. I feel lost. I don't know where to turn. I have no idea how to approach the situation.
She raises her head and looks deep into my eyes and deep into my soul. She tells me that we will figure it out when the time comes and until then there is no need to fret over a possible future. Further, she assures me that the knowledge I've gained from my own experience will likely give us a leg up. And if it becomes too much for us to handle we know people that we can call upon to help us out.
That more or less puts the matter to bed, even though I never fully let it go. I lean on my wife and she supports me. We soon learn that she is pregnant with twins and the time for their delivery arrives. It hurts me to see her in such pain and I am more than relieved when the ordeal is over, but it exhausts my wife to the point where she falls asleep.
I place a hand on her perspiring forehead and she smiles while her eyes stay closed. I can only imagine the dream she must be having. The nurse soon returns with the twins, two baby girls, who have been cleaned and swaddled. I take one in each arm and look down at their precious faces. Their names have already been decided, Janice and Joplin.
Neither of us are fans of the late musician, but the names are just too beautiful to pass up. I feel the warmth from their bodies upon my skin and my nose fills with their sweet scent. I gaze into their faces. I have no idea what the future will bring, nor if I have passed my illness onto them, but I know I can rise to any challenge with my family by my side.