Stream of Consciousness

“It’s not as much fun to pick up the pieces”

“It’s a fucking ziggurat,” Mackie spits out. “Look the way it towers out of fucking nowhere.” Anderson just smiles through bloodstained teeth. The three of them, some psychotropic fight club, had been at it for hours. At the penultimate round, Anderson reached around the poor fuck’s neck and sunk his teeth in. Moves like that earn the name hillbilly vampire, perks Cassie. She’s in the convertible smoking the last of their cigarettes. The buildings indiscernible. Etchings of some eldritch origin. Upon closer inspection, the poor fuck is still breathing. Uncertain for how much longer, though.

“In Autumn,” Anderson quips, “you can taste the sin on the teeth of those who eat.” Chrysanthemum chews her nails. She’s in the driver’s seat watching the orange glow pulsate from behind the billowing smoke. “Don’t mind her,” Anderson adds, “she ages in reverse.”

“Depression isn’t a career choice,” she says. “It’s a fucking destination you take where you’re on the road.” At this, Cassie gets off and walks to the poor fuck’s near-corpse. “Where do we go when we die, Mum?”

“No one knows, really,” she says. “Where do any of us go when we fall asleep, dear?”

The eyes, they’re bloodshot. “We go north,” Mackie says. “We go north and we find another one to fight.”

The four of them pile into the convertible. Are you coming? Some time. Yes. Some time to think, if you’d be so kind. No time for kindness, kid. One shot ride. We’re going to the fucking Ziggurat.

I turn my attention to the road turned off the edge. Powder blue sweater and matching eyes. Depression isn’t a career path. It isn’t a destination. It’s an obstacle. An inconvenience that I have to suffer in order to get to the other side.

“Funny you mention the other side,” Anderson laughs. “Why did the chicken cross the road?” At this, Chrysanthemum guns the engine and they dart away. “The end is not near where we start. Or some shit like that.”


Stressed Out

Not much of a Twenty One Pilots fan, but something about this song stuck. (Most of the album, actually, but let’s not talk about that.) It’s the lyric, the repetitive chorus, “Wish we could turn back time to the good old days/When our momma sang us to sleep, but now we’re stressed out.” The first time I heard it, I swear that vocalist Tyler Joseph sang, “Wish we could turn back time to the good dope days…” and I guess that ages me. And I wonder if that epithet is even used by the band’s target audience. If some twelve-year-old is out there using dope in a sentence. And I wonder what sort of life a twelve-year-old girl leads that a song like “Stressed Out” resonates with her.

And you wonder what business a thirty-five—almost thirty-six—year-old man has conjuring up the thoughts of an adolescent. So I pull out the phone, select the appropriate icon, find the video, and pass it over to you:

Her name is Katelyn Nicole Davis, born February 20, 2004. Last fall, she would have started her first year of high school. May have attended Cedartown High School, home of the Cedartown Bulldogs. Last month, she turned fifteen though she remains, perpetually, twelve.

Replay the video. Once. Twice. So many times, there’s not reason to count. It’s not just this video; there are several from her portfolio that made it onto YouTube. It’s just there’s something about the “Stressed Out” video that keeps ringing home. Maybe it’s the weight of some of the lyrics: “I was told, when I get older, all my fears would shrink/But now I’m insecure, and I care what people think.” Or, maybe, it’s the fact when the chorus plays, I hear Shaun’s voice singing it from the backseat.

On December 30, 2016, Katelyn started streaming on in her backyard. She takes her audience on a somewhat silent tour of the her surroundings before she settles on a tree. She puts down her phone and steps off screen, leaving the audience with only the sounds of her fiddling with something, the roar of traffic passing by, and the dogs barking in the background. “Damn,” she says returning to her phone. “I need to tie it tighter.” It doesn’t take the audience too long to realize her intention when she climbs the tree and ties the rope around one of its branches. When its secure. When she knows it’ll hold, she turns her attention to the audience. Through tears, her words stream out. And she apologizes. Apologizes for not being good enough. Apologizes for hurting. For not being pretty enough. But what strikes the chord for me, she apologizes for the letting the depression get to her.

I juxtapose it. Her live stream suicide, clocking in at just under forty-three minutes, to her fifteen-second

Wish we could turn back time to the good old days…

You can’t make sense of it. Death never makes any sense. And it’s less so when the cause is depression. You can rationalize it all you fucking want, and I have and turned up empty each and every time. I poured through the screenshots of her online journals. Read the bits of information that have come to light. The bullying. The catfishing. The all the shit that pave the road for a twelve-year-old girl to commit suicide.

Waylon Jennings wrote a song entitled “Cedartown, Georgia.” And I wonder if Katelyn ever heard it, even if in passing. There’s a lyric at the end of the song that becomes haunting when I think of it now: “Gonna be a lot of kin folks squallin’ and grieving/ Cause that Cedartown girl ain’t breathing.”