darius melton

Almostcrying

I wore a squid hat to school, and it made people happy.

My old boss used to joke that he has never seen me without a smile on my face. For that reason, I pray to God that he and I never see each other again. I don’t want to let him down.

I wore a squid hat to school, but I did it because I was crushed under the weight of “No.” I stared at the ceiling above my bed and thought, “Man, I could really die right now,” and not because I wanted to be dead, but rather because I thought it better than the alternative that was leaving my room. Of course, I know I don’t want to die. I just want to sleep for a few days or decades. I have things to live for, but on that day, I had nothing to be awake for, at least not yet. A friend saw me wearing the squid hat the day prior, and she asked me to wear it again because it brightened up the room. I could do that for her. I suited up. It made people happy.

I don’t cry, but I almostcry a lot. The last time I almostcried, I wanted to kick a tree, but that would only make me feel bad for the tree. I decided to make the trees my friend, letting myself ball up and bawl up underneath their branchy grasp, but then I remembered what I look like. In my black sweatshirt, my black sweatpants, my (gasp) black shoes, I was a shadow among shadows. How would someone else feel if they stumbled upon a shaking, sobbing blob of blackness minutes removed from midnight? I couldn’t do that to another person—let my dejection burden them with despair—so I went inside and didnotcry, hoping the dam might burst next time.

I wore a squid hat to school, and I can’t stop the nagging thought that every time I enter a room without it, I’m letting people down. But at least that one time, it made people happy.

I tried screaming in the car once. No one was around. I was driving down Randall Parkway, it was almost 2 a.m., and no one would be bothered by whatever hellish noises I’ve been suppressing since I was 17. I gave it three tries, but every time I opened my mouth, the noise wouldn’t come out. Like Eminem, I was choking now. But nobody was joking now. Just a loser losing himself alone.

“I can sit here and pretend
Like my biggest problems are
Pringle cans, and burritos.
The truth is my biggest problem's you.
I want to please you,
But I want to stay true to myself”

– Bo Burnham, Make Happy

I often feel like I’m talking to myself when I complain to people, and that’s because I am, to an extent. I’m talking into a mirror—the funhouse kind. I pour out my emotions, and they come back to me distorted. My sorrow turns into their grief at my sorrow, and I end up comforting the other person, telling them that everything will be all right or that it’s fine already, even if I know I’m not getting through to the person who really needs to hear that.