Corey Shane Fitzpatrick (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
irishblood) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
muserevival2014-04-20 06:27 pm
irishblood) wrote in muserevival2014-04-20 06:27 pm
Quote of the Day 071.
“That's the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it's impossible to ever see the end. The fog is like a cage without a key.”
- Elizabeth Wurtzel
It took Corey four days to process the news that his uncle had cancer. Four days that he had sunk into a deep depression, took himself to his bed, and didn’t come out except to use the bathroom. His desire to paint plummeted into an unreachable darkness again. When he picked up the paintbrush to try to finish the latest piece for his final art project before he transferred to his Occupational Therapy degree, he ended up ruining it, dragging heavy brush strokes over it in dark colours. It resulted in his shoving his easel over when a fit of anger hit and he snapped his paintbrush in half, slamming the broken shards into the wall too.
The attempt to paint was to try to switch his mind off from the bad news so he didn’t have to think about it. It was an attempt to bury his head in the sand and ignore it. It didn’t work. That was when he crawled into bed in his clothes, the blinds all drawn in his tiny apartment, and his phone shut off so no one could reach him with it.
Depression was his demon. It had plagued him for years, ever since witnessing the London Bombings and whilst he usually had it under control, when face with a threat of losing more of his family that he loved so much, it seemed to drag him crashing back down that no balance in medications could stop. He fell hard and fast. It really was like falling into a black hole without anything to grab on to for clawing his way out of it. But wanting to drown out something didn’t make it go away. Four days later, Euan still had cancer. Four days later with the rain pouring down outside, Corey dragged himself out of bed and pulled a hoodie on over his crushed clothes, pulling the hood up over his messy hair and grabbing his phone and wallet to bury them in the pocket.
He walked to his destination that night. The rain was cold, but it was sobering beating down on him and soaking him to the bone. He just kept walking, making his feet continue one step after another and his Converse squelching on the sidewalk. He stopped at each junction waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green. He turned down three offers from cab drivers to take him to wherever he needed to go to get him out of the rain. There was still some humanity left in the world, but right now, it wasn’t a world Corey felt attuned to if it was going to keep tearing the people he loved away from him.
He was pale and shivering by the time he reached his destination. He stood beside Euan and Julie’s bed in their bedroom, and Euan was there resting, propped up on a pile of pillows with some books and a newspaper strewn over Julie’s side of the bed. On a tray stand beside the bed was an untouched meal of soup, cold toast, and tea and beneath that, a bucket for the moments the chemotherapy took its tiresome toll. As soon as Corey came into the room, soaked to the bone and dripping wet, Euan had looked at him in concerned confusion, taking his reading glasses off and tossing them on top of the folded newspaper.
Corey couldn’t look at him. He knew if he looked, he was going to see how sick he was, and he wasn’t sure he was quite ready to face that yet. But even though he was drenched, he wordlessly sat down stiffly on the side of the bed beside Euan. He sat there for silently for moments that seemed to linger too long until he reached and wrap his fingers around Euan’s hand. As soon as the connection was there, Corey dissolved into miserable and helpless tears, shoulders slumped and head hung down to his chest.
Four days it took him to cry. Four days it took him to be able to face the notion his uncle could be in danger of dying from cancer. He was scooped into a hug in Euan’s arms where he folded over with his head resting against Euan’s elbow to just let the hurt come. Sometimes, all you could do was cry, and sometimes, that was really okay.
Corey Fitzpatrick ♦ Original Character
- Elizabeth Wurtzel
It took Corey four days to process the news that his uncle had cancer. Four days that he had sunk into a deep depression, took himself to his bed, and didn’t come out except to use the bathroom. His desire to paint plummeted into an unreachable darkness again. When he picked up the paintbrush to try to finish the latest piece for his final art project before he transferred to his Occupational Therapy degree, he ended up ruining it, dragging heavy brush strokes over it in dark colours. It resulted in his shoving his easel over when a fit of anger hit and he snapped his paintbrush in half, slamming the broken shards into the wall too.
The attempt to paint was to try to switch his mind off from the bad news so he didn’t have to think about it. It was an attempt to bury his head in the sand and ignore it. It didn’t work. That was when he crawled into bed in his clothes, the blinds all drawn in his tiny apartment, and his phone shut off so no one could reach him with it.
Depression was his demon. It had plagued him for years, ever since witnessing the London Bombings and whilst he usually had it under control, when face with a threat of losing more of his family that he loved so much, it seemed to drag him crashing back down that no balance in medications could stop. He fell hard and fast. It really was like falling into a black hole without anything to grab on to for clawing his way out of it. But wanting to drown out something didn’t make it go away. Four days later, Euan still had cancer. Four days later with the rain pouring down outside, Corey dragged himself out of bed and pulled a hoodie on over his crushed clothes, pulling the hood up over his messy hair and grabbing his phone and wallet to bury them in the pocket.
He walked to his destination that night. The rain was cold, but it was sobering beating down on him and soaking him to the bone. He just kept walking, making his feet continue one step after another and his Converse squelching on the sidewalk. He stopped at each junction waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green. He turned down three offers from cab drivers to take him to wherever he needed to go to get him out of the rain. There was still some humanity left in the world, but right now, it wasn’t a world Corey felt attuned to if it was going to keep tearing the people he loved away from him.
He was pale and shivering by the time he reached his destination. He stood beside Euan and Julie’s bed in their bedroom, and Euan was there resting, propped up on a pile of pillows with some books and a newspaper strewn over Julie’s side of the bed. On a tray stand beside the bed was an untouched meal of soup, cold toast, and tea and beneath that, a bucket for the moments the chemotherapy took its tiresome toll. As soon as Corey came into the room, soaked to the bone and dripping wet, Euan had looked at him in concerned confusion, taking his reading glasses off and tossing them on top of the folded newspaper.
Corey couldn’t look at him. He knew if he looked, he was going to see how sick he was, and he wasn’t sure he was quite ready to face that yet. But even though he was drenched, he wordlessly sat down stiffly on the side of the bed beside Euan. He sat there for silently for moments that seemed to linger too long until he reached and wrap his fingers around Euan’s hand. As soon as the connection was there, Corey dissolved into miserable and helpless tears, shoulders slumped and head hung down to his chest.
Four days it took him to cry. Four days it took him to be able to face the notion his uncle could be in danger of dying from cancer. He was scooped into a hug in Euan’s arms where he folded over with his head resting against Euan’s elbow to just let the hurt come. Sometimes, all you could do was cry, and sometimes, that was really okay.