The one person I know who can relate to the experience of having depression is Rhyming Rhea, so I go to her YouTube. I find the video where she rhymes about some of the ways she deals with depression.
She walks her dog, dances, reads books that make her laugh, watches TV, even takes a long bath (lots of bubbles in that shot!). It’s fun, but serious, too. She talks about therapy and medication. I copy the link and go to my profile, which has thus far been completely blank. I write:
I make myself feel better by living vicariously. When that’s not enough, go here:
I post the link. I hope she won’t mind. I don’t think she will. And I go back to commenting. Whenever I think it might help someone, I write, “click the link in my profile.” But mostly I write, “I care” and “you are not alone” and “I see you.”
I do it until the sun has been up for hours and Mom is tapping on my door asking if I’m awake and do I want breakfast. I devour the eggs and toast she makes for me, and return to my computer to write some more. There are so many comments, and the more I write, the more pleas for help I get. Clearly, no one else is listening to these people, or answering them. When I do, they want more. They write back. They challenge and question and doubt.
exitstagebeth You’re just saying that to be nice.
ihateme2ew You don’t even know me.
problxems Thanks. But what do I do? Drop out?
sadlyghostly I feel this way ALL the time.
And so many more.
I check the number of new comments. They are double what I had when I started replying. All the tingly lightness I felt after my date with Lipton is gone. It is hard enough to carry my own sadness and loneliness. But shouldering everyone else’s will bury me.
I take a break, pace my room as if I can walk it off. But each second I’m away from the computer is another dozen comments.
Not all my followers are troubled. Most are happy. But I have to dig through their bursts of “LOVE THIS!” and “OMG you are the best” to find those who need my help. If the two kinds of followers would just talk to each other . . .
I scan my comments again, start tallying them up. There are about six positive comments for every negative one. Six happy, funny, silly, joyful (or at least trying to appear so) people for every one who is hurting.
I go to my closet. Pull out the wig. Throw on a black T-shirt. I won’t need the skirt today, because this is only going to be a head shot. I choose the white cat-eyed sunglasses. They are the most serious I have. I get dressed, sit in front of the computer again, and open the Photo Booth. This will be as close up as any image I have posted, so I make sure all my hair is completely tucked into the wig. I apply lipstick. Neatly at first, then smearing a little outside the lines.
I snap the photo. One frame is all I need. But instead of uploading the image straight to Instagram, I print it out on my color printer. I dig through my desk drawers for all the thick, colorful markers I can find. Then, all around the edges of the page, I write the sadness and pain of my followers:
#Hated#Broken#Ugly#Fat#Nobodycares
#Wasteofspace#Unwanted#Unloved#Scared
#Alone#Weak#Sad#Depressed#Angry
#Hopeless#Ignored#Notgoodenough
#Seeme#Talktome#Listen
I write it like a word cloud, some words big and some smaller, but I curve them around my head, my neck, my shoulders, along the jagged edges of my hair and into all four corners of the paper. I fill the emptiness with despair. My own bleeds onto the page, too.
#Mybestfrienddumpedme
#Pathetic#Getalife
I thought Lipton might be able to fill the hole Jenna left, but he is carving out his own space in my heart. The one Jenna occupied is still empty, and still aching. Even though I pushed it all down, the feelings are still there.
Capping the markers, I put the picture on the scanner and capture a new image. A picture of a picture.
When I posted the #seeme images before, the plea for help was subtle. It was a nudge. A tip of my chin toward those in need. Hey, look there. Look around. See that girl? The one nobody ever notices? Say hi. Notice.
And some did. Adrian Ahn did. Without any expectation of a reward in return, he reached out.
This time, I pull the image into the app that lets me post from my computer, and let my cursor hover for a minute while I think of the message that will go with it. And this is what I come up with:
If you follow me, please find someone in the comments NOW who needs a kind word, a listener, a friend. Reach out. Be there for one another. I cannot do it #alone.
I post the image and log out before the comments start appearing, because I’m exhausted. And I know they’ll do it. They have to, for when I’m not here to do it for them, which might be tomorrow or next week or months from now. I dive into bed. They’ll be fine, I tell myself.
Will I?
27
I’M NERVOUS TO SEE LIPTON on Monday. Afraid that he came to his senses over the weekend and has realized I am not all that.
But I can’t not look at him. And when I do, he passes me a note.
I miss you.
I quickly scribble my response:
I’m sitting right next to you.
His reply:
Not close enough.
I smile and tuck the note into my pocket and spend the rest of the class fighting the urge to inch my desk closer to his. After history, he offers to walk me to my next class, even though he needs to head in the opposite direction.
“You’ll be late,” I say.
He shrugs. “So, I’ll be late.”
We walk, shoulders bumping more than necessary.
“How was the rest of your weekend?” he asks. We are back to awkward small talk.
“Fine,” I say, because truthful answers like “anguished” or “sleepless” or “emotionally draining” would only lead to more questions.
“I found out what that girl was talking about at the concert,” he says. “About Vicurious.”
I nearly choke, but pretend to simply be clearing my throat. “Oh?”
“It’s an Instagram account. She’s got like a million followers. She posted something about the concert. Have you seen her?”
“I’m not on Instagram,” I say.
“Me neither. I mean, not really. I haven’t posted anything. I just signed up so I could see what all the fuss was about.” He shrugs. “I thought maybe you heard of her. Everyone’s talking about it.”
I shake my head, lips pursed in a tight smile.
Lipton touches a protective hand to my arm, guiding me sideways so I don’t run into some kid who is barreling down the hallway toward us. “She actually reminds me of you.”
“I’m not on Instagram,” I say again. “I don’t know anything about it.”
He chuckles. “Don’t worry. There’s not going to be a test or anything. I just thought you might be curious.”
“Right. Sure. I’ll check it out.” We arrive at the door to my biology class. “Here I am. You better hurry.”
Lipton says a quick “Bye!” and disappears.
I’m about to take my seat behind Mallory-of-the-bathroom when someone jumps up from the back row and says, “Vicky! Hey!”