I've never met them, but they tell me their most closely guarded secrets.
“Hotline. How can I help you?”
Pause.
“How does this work?” Male. Maybe mid-thirties. Nervous.
“Well, we're a crisis line. People call us, anonymously, to talk about what's on their mind. I'm here to listen. And to help, if I can.” Pause. Breathing. “What's on your mind?”
“I've never done nothing like this before--”
He stops short. I wait. I've done this before. He hasn't.
“I... I don't want no one finding out I called you. There's some people after me, y'see?”
“Tell me about it...”
***
“Why does she always fucking do this to me? Every fucking time? It's like she thinks I don't know what a stupid fucking idiot I am for letting him fuck me without the condom. I know, ok? I know. I'm not a fucking baby. I'm sixteen fucking years old, ok? He's my fucking boyfriend. What right does she have—what fucking right? She had me at fifteen and she doesn't even fucking know who—what fucking right does she have to call me a whore?”
“She called you a whore?”
“My fucking mother called me a fucking whore.”
***
“It's been so long, man. Just so damn long and nothing, y'know? Nothing. Not one phone call, not one interview, nothing. Nada. Zip.”
“How many applications did you send out this week?”
“I don't know, man, maybe twenty. Maybe more. What's it matter? It's nothing. It's nothing.” A deep inhale. “What am I gonna tell my baby girl? What am I gonna tell her? That her daddy's useless? A washup? A nothing?”
“Maybe tell her how hard you're trying. For her. How much you love her.”
Pause. “I don't know. Rent's come due, heat's off. I'm useless, man. Just useless.”
***
“The knife makes me uncomfortable.”
“It would be so easy. Just one little cut...”
“Please? I want to talk to you, but I'm distracted. Can you put it down for me?”
Pause. She's breathing. I'm not.
“I'm sorry, but I can't.”
“Well can you at least promise not to cut yourself while we're talking? It will help me focus on you.”
“I was doing so well... I hadn't even had an urge in forever. Then that bitch gave me a B-. I could fucking kill myself right now.” Pause. “Fine. It's on the dresser. Happy?”
“Thanks.”
***
Tom—at least that's the name he gave me—called yesterday. He's in a committed relationship with a man who is HIV positive. “I went back today. Paul didn't come this time.”
“To the clinic?”
“Yeah.” Long pause.
“And?”
“And what?”
“What happened? Did you get your results?”
“Yeah.” Breathing. “I've got it.”
“That's heavy.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you tell Paul?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“It's gonna break his heart. I can't do that to him. I love him.”
I don't know what to say, so I say nothing.
He breaks the silence. “You still there?”
“Yeah, I'm still here.”
“Good.”
***
“Sure, I've hooked up before... But I can't remember any of last night. I hate it. I only had two drinks—How did I get so messed up?”
“Only two?”
“One pre-game and then one at the bar with the guy—Christ, I can't even remember his name... Hold on, I'm gonna be sick.” Dry retching in the background. “I only had two. I've never blacked out like this, even when I seriously partied.”
“Did he hand you your drink?”
Pause. “You're... Oh god, no. Shit like that only happens in the movies. Are you saying I was raped?”
***
“I ship out Wednesday.”
“That's soon.”
“Aren't you gonna tell me how brave I am and all that shit?”
“Do people usually tell you that?”
“Yeah. Everyone. They don't have a clue. I'm not brave. I'm scared as hell. It's fucking Iraq. People die over there. I'm not brave—I'd give anything not to go. And no one understands that. My old man keeps saying how proud he is of me. What is there to be proud of? I'm gonna get shot at in the fucking desert.”
“I can only imagine.”
“It's my third tour. No you can't fucking imagine.”
***
“I'm 25 years old, and I've never had a girlfriend. I've never even come close. I'm not a freak or anything like that, I just don't know how other guys do it.”
“Do what?”
“Get girls, y'know? Like I talk to them and I ask them out and stuff, but it never works out.”
“What have you tried?”
“Everything. Bars. Internet dating. Groups. Whatever. It's just... the hot ones never seem to like me and the ones who like me don't rock my world, y'know?”
“It's hard being single.”
“Are you?”
“Yeah.” Pause.
“It just gets so goddamn lonely, y'know?”
***
“I don't even know how it got to be this bad. We used to be so good for each other, y'know? Like we could talk about anything. About our dreams.”
“What dreams?”
She laughs. “Anything but this, hon. Anything but this.” A baby cries in the background. “Shit. Can you hold on a minute?” She returns. Her voice is softer. “He used to tell me how we were gonna travel the world together. How maybe he couldn't give me all the fancy things a girl should have, but that he wanted to share everything else... Fuck divorce. Fuck the blonde.”
***
“I just have to read this to someone.”
“What is it?”
“A poem I wrote. Will you listen?”
“Sure.”
“Sometimes, when I'm happy,
I believe that there are invisible threads connecting all of us together
weaving a tapestry, an imperfect pattern
of mistakes and kisses and disappointments and dreams.
But on nights like this—cold, cruel, empty—I
don't know what to believe.
I can't feel the tug of the invisible threads anymore.
Are we really just alone?”
Pause. “Wow. That's intense. And sad. You're quite talented.”
“I know you have to say that.”
“I don't.”
“It's nice to hear anyways.”
***
“Gonna do it this time.” Phil's a regular—he calls every day.
“Really? What's different this time?”
“I dunno but I gotta like... wrap my mind around something solid. Something good. I'm sick of this same old motherfucking horseshit. Brother's gonna kick me out again. Gotta stick with the program.”
“Going to the same NA meeting?”
“Yeah. Got a good group there. Leader's been off smack for eleven years. Can you imagine? Eleven years...”
“Long time.”
“Long time. Like heaven.” He laughs. “I'm writing again.”
“Yeah? What are you writing, Phil?”
“Story of my life.”
“I'd love to read that.”
***
They call because they are hurting. They are lonely. They are scared.
I try to help, but I can only do so much when they are about to become homeless, have lost hope, are dying of cancer.
I don't tell them my most closely guarded secret.
I am one of them.
I called hotlines in the three months leading up to my suicide attempt at the age of 17. I feel like I'm lying to them. I can't honestly tell them it gets better. For some it probably won't.
But I will listen. Like someone once listened for me.
Diana Sung teaches English to geniuses in Korea for a living. She does taekwondo and swing dances in her spare time. She used to volunteer at a suicide hotline and loved every minute of it. She blogs her travels and her life at Going Places.
