I Am Nowhere To Be Found
Written for the ArTina Ficathon on tumblr for Miss Cordy. Thanks so much to everyone who's been writing/reading all these stories, it's super cool to get an influx of ArTina action and I am blown away by the participation. I have every faith that we'll get all prompts finished and that's super cool!
Prompt from Miss Cordy: Something angsty inspired by "Breathe Me" by Sia.
As much as I wish I weren't writing from experience here, I am. I listened to the song (which I hadn't actually heard before) and it kind of sparked something in me, not to mention actually drove me to tears. It made me think of a specific situation and out came the fic. It's been a cathartic experience but I'm going to have to binge on fluff now to make myself feel better :D
WARNINGS: Depression, suicide attempt. Could be trigger-y.
SPOILERS: Up to 1X19, 'Dream On'.
She's staring at the wall, not daring to look at him. At this point in time, it suits him fine, because he's not sure how he's going to react if her eyes actually meet his. Emotions are high, thoughts are churning in his head and he hasn't quite come to grips with the situation. Not yet, anyway. Maybe later on it will sink in but at the moment, his mind is still grappling with the concept, trying to make it make sense.
No matter how he tries to spin it, he can't seem to make it make sense. At all.
"I didn't ask her to call you," she says finally, breaking the silence.
It takes a minute for him to figure out what she's talking about but eventually it clicks. He remembers the phone ringing at dinner last night, his mother answering and almost immediately leaving the room to continue the conversation elsewhere. Moments later, she's taking him into the lounge, sitting on the couch so they're at eye level and telling him it was Tina's mom on the phone. "She thought you should know."
"I'm glad she did," he replies instinctively. He stops for a moment to ask himself if that's actually true. Would he be better off not knowing? Then it hits him that for years, he's been silently seething that people treat him like he's breakable, like any bad news will shatter at him. This is bad news, right here. He just hopes that people were completely off base in their assumptions.
It doesn't look like she's going to start talking anytime soon, so he takes it on himself. "Are you okay?" he asks, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible. He hasn't slept since he found out, he's more than a little on edge and despite the fact a not insignificant part of him is fighting tears, he's got enough presence of mind to know that crying won't help anyone.
She nods. "The doctors said I'll be fine. Sore stomach for a few days but fine." That wasn't what he meant and she knows it but neither of them acknowledge it. All of a sudden, she laughs. It's not a happy laugh. It's harsh and it's bitter and it hurts his ears a little, because it's nowhere near the musical sound he's associated with her for so long. "I feel like such an idiot."
There's no way for him to answer that so he doesn't try. Instead he asks the question he's been dying to ask ever since he found out. "Why?"
"I don't know," she answers, still staring at the wall. From the tone of her voice, he can tell it isn't the complete truth. He isn't expecting her to keep going. "Right now, when I'm sitting here, I don't know why. But when it's late and I can't sleep and it's dark, it's just me and my thoughts and... it's not fun. It just... it sucks all the happiness out of everything. And I'm... I'm so scared and my heart won't stop racing and all I can think about is how much easier things were be if I could just sleep. And then I think about dying and how it's kind of like sleep and there's just this giant black hole in my head and it starts looking like a really good idea. It's... it's been like this for weeks and finally I just snapped and gave in." She sighs. "Mom came in to check on me when she heard me get up to go to the bathroom to get the pills and she found me just before I passed out."
The idea that she's hurting so much that death seems like welcome respite sends a pang through his heart and his next words spill out without even thinking. "What about me?"
"What about you?"
Her response is quick and like a knife to a gut. He draws in a sharp breath but doesn't reply. She's still not looking at him but he can see her demeanor shift instantly. She softens. Up until now, she's been holding herself like she's bracing for attack, shoulders tensed, would up like a spring. "That came out wrong," she says finally. "It's not that you don't matter - you do, believe me, you do - but this isn't about you."
"What is it about?" he asks. His heart is hurts from the whole mess and a part of him he's desperately trying to ignore is screaming that if she's willing to do something like this, to give up on everything completely, then what does that mean for him? What does that mean for them?
She sighs and lies back on her bed in one fluid movement, staring at the ceiling. Still not looking at him. "How can I explain this?" she says after a long moment. "How can I complain about my stupid problems when everything you've got to deal with is so real? Doesn't that make me selfish? There's nothing really wrong with my life. I shouldn't have anything to complain about. I shouldn't have anything to make me feel like this. But you..." She trails off and sighs again. "I look at everyone around me and how they deal with their problems, which are so much worse than any of mine, and I see them coping. If they can, then why can't I? What's my excuse?"
He takes her comments in, mulling them over in his mind. He can see where she's coming from. She isn't exactly the 'woe is me', damsel in distress type. She's always willing to put other people before herself. And maybe that's half the problem. He had no idea she felt like this, had no idea she struggled with this, because every day, she'd put him first. Wheeling him from class to class, retrieving things just out of his reach, jumping in to help without even having to be asked. It's then with a jolt that he realizes how in tune she is to his needs. And how much he never even noticed hers.
"You don't need an excuse," he says finally. "It's faulty brain chemistry. It's not you not being strong. You're one of the strongest people I know." He takes in a calming breath. "Are you getting help? Medication, counseling?"
"My parents have me seeing a psychiatrist," she replies. "They've put me on medication. Anti-depressants, sleeping tablets... the insomnia and the related late night panic are the biggest problems." She sighs again, quieter this time. "They say things will take awhile to get better. It takes time for the medication to kick in. But sleeping tablets should mean I sleep better. And hopefully it won't happen again."
"Good," he replies. "That's really good." His mind keeps going over and over all the questions he wants to ask. The biggest one, the one he knows he won't ask, is did he do something? Their relationship has been rocky but he honestly felt like things were going okay now. If he could, he'd kick himself for his reaction to her stutter confession, not to mention his sexist comments he wishes he could take back. Deep in his heart, he knows why he said those things to her - he'd wanted to hurt her then. It isn't something he's proud of but he's human and he's not immune to schadenfreude. But there's absolutely nothing even remotely pleasurable about the situation they're in now. And now he's regretting every stupid comment, every thoughtless word and wondering to himself if somehow, he is even vaguely responsible for what she'd tried to do.
Maybe even thinking that is selfish. He doesn't dare verbalize the thought. Instead, he wheels as close to the bed as he can, locks the wheels and hoists himself onto the bed, thankful for the headboard that makes it that little bit easier. He's done this once or twice before so it's not completely awkward but usually Tina helps and right now, she still hasn't moved and there's no way he's going to ask her for help. A few awkward moments later, he's settled on the bed, sitting against the headboard and she hasn't responded even slightly.
This is the part that were he able, he'd grab her and hold her and not let her go for a very long time, because the possibility of losing her is gnawing at his heart and he feels like he needs to touch her to reassure himself that she's still there. Except that she's not, not really. She's curled up into herself, staring at the wall and answering every question in a monotone. His mind flicks back to her first comment. I didn't ask her to call you. Does that mean she doesn't want him here? Does that mean she wasn't going to tell him about this? He thinks back to her comment about being honest after she finds the piece of paper with his dancing dream written on it. He then thinks back to her reaction. Trying to find a way to help him dance. Trying to find a way to make his dream come true. It didn't work but she tried and that meant everything to him.
He wonders if she knows that.
"I have no idea what to do here," he blurts out in a rush. "I want to be able to do something. I hate seeing you like this, I hate that you feel like this, I hate that things were so bad and I didn't know... and I hate that I have no idea how to make this better."
Her shoulders soften just a little and there is a long moment before she finally, in one swift movement, lies backwards on the bed. Her head lands in his lap and he can't feel it but guess that it's something, some kind of contact. He reaches down and strokes her hair lightly. At his touch, she sighs. "You can't make this better, Artie. It won't be fixed by a heartfelt ballad in front of the entire Glee club."
"Who do you think I am, Rachel?" he jokes lightly. He gets a halfhearted laugh in response, and at least it's something.
"I have to fix this myself," she continues. "It's my head, my life... it's something I've always dealt with but not dealt with, you know? And I thought I was okay because life's been going so well but things were so bad for so long and it's all kind of hitting me and I don't understand it but it's something I have to do for myself. And it's going to make me stronger - that's what everyone says, right? Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger?"
The cliché makes him wince because he's heard it before, after the accident. He remembers not feeling strong and something clicks inside him where maybe he gets what she's going through, in some way. It's different, it's in her head but he's read enough about depression to know that it's not just a case of sucking it up and getting over it, it's something serious and not dealt with, it can lead to very bad things. Bad things like Tina - his beautiful, strong, brave Tina - taking all the pills in her parents medicine cabinet because she just can't deal with her own thoughts anymore.
"That's what everyone says," he replies. "And it's true. It just really sucks to hear when you're not stronger yet." She sniffs and he realizes she's started to cry, somewhere along the line. He strokes her hair as comfortingly as he can and she shudders, crying audibly now. "It's going to be okay. You're going to be okay. You're tough, remember? Your growing feminism was going to cut me in half like the righteous blade of equality."
There's a choking sound from his lap. "I d-don't f-feel that t-tough right now," she says, the stutter coming back through the tears.
"You are," he promises. "You are tough." He moves his hand down to her shoulder, feeling the warmth from her body and letting it comfort him as much as the gesture hopefully comforts her. She's here, she's alive and even though this situation is breaking his heart, he knows it could be worse. "What can I do?" he asks out loud, not even sure if he's asking Tina or the universe in general. "How can I help here?"
Later on that day he'll spend hours on the internet, reading up on depression and other mental health issues and he'll find himself with a deeper understanding of everything - her stutter, what happened the night before, not to mention various therapies, research and case studies. He'll gently inquire to make sure she's taking her medication, ask how therapy is going, make sure she realizes she has his full support on everything. He'll try harder not to say anything stupid and he'll make sure to treat her carefully, but not too carefully, because she's still Tina - his strong, beautiful, brave Tina - and treating her like a breakable china doll will probably earn him another feisty feminist rant.
But right now, he squeezes her shoulder gently and she scoots up the bed to cuddle up against him, her body pressed against his and it's just so right. He barely hears her words as they're muffled through his shirt, she's so tightly wrapped around him, but as the vibrations course through his chest, it's almost poetic how they're going straight to his heart.
"Be my friend. Hold me."
AN2: A big hug to anyone who has dealt/is dealing with mental health issues. It's not easy but believe me when I say it does get better.