This is unexpected news, especially after the band’s management and PR team went through so much to cover it all up.
“He really wants to do that?”
“It was his idea. He thinks people should be made aware of depression and mental illness, instead of hiding it like it’s some big-ass taboo thing. There’re other musicians in the facility, and they’re thinking of starting like a non-profit to help others. I think he wants to try to get some sort of good out of this, Piper. He’s got a massive fan base, he’s in a good position to spread the word, so to speak. I think it’ll get him a lot of respect. And if it makes him feel better, he should do it. I told him I’d do whatever I can to help him. The whole band’s behind him on this.”
I’m filled with pride for Blue—for wanting to face this and let the world know, and to try to help others. It shows he’s getting stronger. I just wish he could also face me.
“I think that’s great,” I finally say. “He’s right, it shouldn’t just be hidden away and swept under the rug. Maybe if it was talked about more, people suffering wouldn’t feel so alone. They’d be more open to talking about it, right?”
“Some might. That’s what he’s hoping.”
“Do the doctors have any idea when he might go home?” As the words leave my mouth I wonder where Blue considers home now. In Seattle? Here in New Hampshire with me? In California where the fancy facility and doctors are?
“Not yet. He’s not being kept there. Right now he wants to be there until he feels ready. It’s a good place. You’d be surprised how many musicians, actors, and actresses are there.”
I wish I could somehow get more answers. My therapist keeps telling me to just be patient and supportive with Blue, but to also live my life, and focus on what I need and what makes me happy. Much easier said than done, though. I’ve gone through so many stages of emotions—denial, anger, betrayal, abandonment, devastation. I’ve worked hard with my therapist to not let this all drag me under, but it’s hard.
“Well, I should get going. Lyric is waiting for her lunch,” I lie. “Thanks so much for calling, Reece. When you talk to Blue, please tell him I love him with all my heart.” I swallow and wet my lips. “And please tell him I’m not going anywhere.”
I end the call and stare out the window at the light drizzle falling, hoping a rainbow will appear to touch the sky with color. I’ll never be able to see gray clouds and rain without thinking of Blue.
I’ve become one of those women who deals with her problems by doing insane amounts of housework. As soon as I hung up the phone, I cleaned all the bathrooms, vacuumed the entire house, cleaned the cat box, and came close to re-painting the front door. I decided to save it for another day when I’m feeling emotionally neurotic.
And then, just to make sure I obliterate the past two hours of keeping my mind busy and in a healthy place, I put on the recording of Blue’s last performance—the live TV show he did. I haven’t been able to watch it before today, but now I suddenly feel like I can’t go another second without watching it. Maybe there was something I missed when I watched it live that night—like a sign that he was struggling. I sit on my bedroom floor with my face approximately two feet from the screen and watch the man I love come alive.
Seeing him so vivid, looking so confident and in control on the stage is a blow to my heart and only makes me miss him a hundred times more than I already do. Glued to the screen, I watch his every movement and look for a glint of sadness or mania in his eyes, but I don’t see anything out of the norm for him. Blue always has a darkish, sort of sensual and brooding aura on stage and this night was no different.
His voice does what it always does to me—caresses me like a warm breeze, leaving tiny goosebumps over my skin. But this time I listen to the lyrics of the new song more closely….
If I could stay, I think I would
If I could’ve saved you, I think I would
If I could bring you with me, God knows I would
But I’m on this road alone, doing nothing that I should
I wish I didn’t love you
I wish you didn’t love me, too
I wish I could change the things I do
I wish none of this was true.
A chill slides up my spine. Blue always expels his feelings through his lyrics. Were these words a cry for help? A surrender? A goodbye? Or just the words to a mellow love song that was suitable for a television audience?
And then there’s Acorn’s collar. Why didn’t I question him that night on the phone about the faded collar and tags that were wound around his wrist? I just assumed it was a tribute of some sort to his dog. Was he trying to say something?
I touch his image on the TV screen as the cameraman zooms to his face, and Blue gives a quick smile, then looks down, taking a deep, shuddering breath.
At the time, I thought his smile at the camera for me was sexy, but watching it with the knowledge I now have, his expression changes as the camera pans out. The smile fades, his eyes darken as they lower toward the floor, and he looks completely overcome with sorrow.
The camera moves to Reece, then Koler, and when it swings back to Blue, he looks normal again. But I saw it—that desperate, grief-stricken look.
I wish I had seen it that night, but would it have changed anything? What would I have done, other than ask him if he’s okay? And if I did, what would his answer have been?
“I’m just tired,” as he always says, or “I’m thinking of hurling myself off the roof”?
I’m sure the latter never would have come out of his mouth.
“Mom?”
I tear my eyes away from the screen to see Lyric standing in the bedroom doorway. “Hi, sweetheart. What’s up?”
She steps inside and looks at the TV just before I turn it off.
“Were you watching Blue’s concert?”
I nod. “Yeah, I miss him and just wanted to see him.”
She sits on the floor next to me, in the same position I’m sitting.
“Blue’s not okay, is he?” Her soft voice could have been a horrific scream and it would have had the same gut-wrenching effect on me.
“What makes you say that?” I ask, forcing a smile.
“I guess I kinda feel like something’s wrong inside.”
She knew he looked sad that night. She asked me why he looked so sad, but I didn’t see it. Oh, how I wish I had.
I realize I can’t lie to her anymore. She’s too intuitive—too wise beyond her years—to have blinders pulled over her.
“Well… no. He’s going through a rough time right now. He’s been emotionally exhausted for a long time, and he’s been…confused.” She listens intently, nodding as if she understands, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she does. “He had a very difficult childhood, and the memories of that still hurt him and make him feel sad and sick. Does that make sense?”
“Yes.”
“So he’s in a special hospital for a little while, and they’re helping him rest, and they’re going to give him medicine that will make his head stop hurting and make him not so sad.” I can’t bring myself to tell her he tried to harm himself. Not when she’s looking at me with her huge, hopeful eyes.
“Will I see him again?”
“Yes, definitely. I promise you, he’ll be back. Actually his friend Reece called me this morning, and he said that Blue said to tell you he loves you and he misses you very much.”
“Can I call him and tell him I love and miss him, too?”
“Not yet, but I promise as soon as we can talk to him on the phone, we will.”
Disappointment puts a frown on her face. “Okay. I sorta thought something was wrong when he was writing the bird prints in his book and asked me if I could read it. I hope he feels better soon, I really miss him. Are you still getting married?”
If I have anything to do with it, then hell yes, we’re getting married.
“Of course we are, it’s just postponed until he feels better. Don’t worry, okay? Come here and give me a hug.” Smiling, she crawls across the floor and hugs me, then tells me she’s going to take Mickey in the backyard to teach him how to do new tricks.
It’s not until I hear her outside with the dog that I remember what she said about the bird prints and Blue’s book. Confused, I go to the closet where he keeps some of his things, and sure enough, one of his old journal books are in there. I pull it out and flip through a few pages of journal entries until I get to a page of the scribbles—only now I see they’re not just random scribbles as I’ve always thought. They’re actually bird tracks.
What the hell? Here’s a huge red flag that’s been right in front of me for years and I was completely clueless.
I wonder how many people with mental illness are walking around suffering in silence, smiling on the outside, and doing things like this that their friends and loved ones are just passing off as being weird, never realizing that they might need help.
Maybe I never did enough, or said enough. I always let Blue lead. I always waited for him. That couldn’t have been good for me, or for him.
I grab my phone and send Reece a text:
Me: Can I write Blue a letter? Can you give it to him if I send it to you?