Am I Not King? Part IV: Depression

TRIGGER WARNING: Suicidal thoughts.

******************************************************************************************

Depression

It was a disaster.

Of course, I felt as if I was meant to be in “King Richard II”—and, of course, as if I was meant to play King Richard himself. Unfortunately, it was a summer production, and I had never been in a summer production before, because I always went all the way to Georgia to visit my father for the summer. I begged and pleaded with my mom and step dad to let me stay, but they said that not only did Dad deserve to see me at least once a year, but that they needed a break from me. I said (and believed) that I would die, just wither away from grief, if I couldn’t be in the play, if I couldn’t play Richard. And when Mom, my step dad, or anyone else pointed out that I might not get the role, I got so angry with them. Didn’t they understand? I’d been preparing for this role for four years! Besides, it was destiny. I wouldn’t get any other part. It was just that simple.

Finally, at the last minute, my family reached an agreement. Dad was to come to Wisconsin and live there for the summer, with me, in my grandmother’s empty apartment while she was out of town. I signed up for the play at the last moment, thrilled.

The day of try-outs came and went. Then came a few weeks where Richard DiPrima, the director, did the casting. When the e-mail that listed everyone’s roles finally came, I was at Study Hall, in the last week or so of school.

I skimmed the e-mail, looking for my name next to the words “King Richard II.” Then I read it again, more carefully, convinced I had missed it. It felt like I read it ten times, fear tightening my chest, before I finally saw my name. After all, I was looking for it next to the title role. And I hadn’t been cast as Richard. Instead, I was Mowbray, the Bishop of Carlisle, Lord Berkeley, and the 2nd Gardener’s Man.

When I next went into YSP, I sat behind my best friend at the time, Hali. She had been cast as Queen Isabel, Richard’s wife. You have to understand I was still shocked, and in so much pain the hurt was almost physical. (Not that that’s any excuse for what happened next.) So when Hali said, “You know, I’m glad you’re not Richard…”

I pulled back my arm and hit her as hard as I could in the face.

It turned out that she hadn’t finished. What she meant was that she was glad I wasn’t Richard in her cast. See, if I were, we’d have to kiss and be all lovey-dovey, since we’d be husband and wife. I was very sorry, but a rift grew between us, starting then. I think that part (not all, not even most, but part) of the reason Hali and I aren’t friends anymore is because of that one moment.

I was miserable. I contemplated suicide often during the next few weeks. I even decided on the way to do it. There is a high tower on the side of my mother’s house, with a window near the top. If I were to just close my eyes and step out, not giving myself time to think about it, I would be free falling through the air, the wind whistling past me, then a sudden, virtually painless crunch, and then it would be over.

If someone had pointed out to me how silly, even ludicrous, killing yourself over something so small would be, I probably wouldn’t have even understood what they meant, just stared blankly at them. To me it wasn’t small; it consumed my world. What stopped me wasn’t how ridiculous it would have been; mostly it was the fear that I wouldn’t die, that I’d just break my legs or my spine, and never be able to walk again—or worse, become paralyzed, and be forced to live a miserable life in a hospital.

There’s not much more to say. I basically threw a two-month long hissyfit. I don’t even remember much about the rest of the production after I hit Hali, aside from my suicidal thoughts (which I never told anyone about). I was moody, angry, and miserable, and I did my very best to make everyone else in the production feel the same. I memorized all my lines, and said them with the proper intonation and such, but I was just reciting. I never got to know any of my characters: their thoughts, their feelings, their ambitions, their loves and hates.

Soon after performances were over, my mom and step dad decided that they’d had enough of me and sent me away to Georgia for two years.