Sorry Paul. And thanks for that saving my life thing.

I didn’t sleep much when I was a freshman in college. I’d stay up late at night catching up on all the TV I had been denied as a child. Some nights, my friend Paul and I would hop in his four-wheel drive station wagon and drive aimlessly through the dark upstate New York wilderness. He had welded a skid plate to the bottom of his station wagon’s chassis so it was safe to take it off-road. We drove up abandoned dirt roads until they became open fields or impassable forest. Then he’d tease me, wondering aloud what we’d do if an ax murderer suddenly appeared, silhouetted against the horizon. Sometimes he’d reach over and pull the lever so my seat would slam back. Then he'd lean across me and growl suggestively, "Hey baby."

I couldn’t decide if I was attracted to Paul or if he was the big brother I’d always wanted. When we were cuddled up, doing homework on my roommate’s futon, I wondered if he might have feelings for me. I pretended to fall asleep, my cheek resting on the curly brown hair over his heart.

Sophomore year, Paul and my roommate’s boyfriend got an apartment off-campus. My roommate slept over every night so I spent most of my time there too. Paul was a cross between a renaissance man and an overgrown child. He spent a lot of his time repairing an old typewriter he found on the street or cooking macaroni and cheese on his camp stove in the middle of his bedroom. When it was time for bed, he’d make the twenty-minute walk with me back to my dorm. By late fall, I gave up on the dorm and just slept on the scratchy wool couch.

- - - - - - - - -

That winter, my summer boyfriend dumped me and I spiraled into the third major depressive episode of my life. My behavior had always been erratic and needy, but now I had become all-consuming. I lost my temper too much and some people stopped talking to me. I started stealing from my roommate’s liquor cabinet.

Paul was back together with his old girlfriend, Denise. Even though I was jealous, I started hanging out at her place because she was older and would still buy me alcohol. One night, Denise fell asleep early while Paul was at the library. I drank all the alcohol she had in the apartment and decided to kill myself. Then Paul came home. Why was my coat on and where I was going, he asked? I was going to fall asleep in a snow bank and hopefully, freeze to death, I said. He pushed me away from the door and I fought back. It was like shoving against a bull. He picked me up and pinned me to the floor. I finally passed out around three in the morning.

When I woke, Paul and Denise were making breakfast and ignoring me. Finally, Denise said, “Now I know why your roommate told me to keep you away from alcohol. You can’t come over here anymore, Juniper. Not when you’re doing this. I can’t take the responsibility.” I quickly walked to the bathroom and locked the door behind me. Crying hysterically, I lay down and put my cheek against the cool tile floor. Denise’s razor stared at me from the shelf in front of my face. I held it to my wrist for a while. Eventually, they pounded on the door and I went home.


A few weeks later I told my roommate that Paul and Denise didn’t like her boyfriend. It had been a secret. Paul and Denise stopped talking to me. They were struggling to get through their engineering degrees and didn’t have time for my bullshit.

- - - - - - - - -

I missed them a lot. Especially Paul. But. They really taught me something.

I was tired of everyone thinking I was “crazy-Juniper.” Nobody saw how scared I was. Acting crazy and sick just left me alone and more depressed. Wanting to die was pointless, selfish, indulgent, and a stupid way to get attention. College students didn’t know what to do with me anyway. I realized that if I controlled myself, I could take responsibility for my actions and emotions, put away all this noise and be more mature. I stopped bothering my friends and tried to be more responsible. I didn’t want to drive everyone away.

I’ve always wanted to get in touch with Paul and Denise: to thank them and apologize. Occasionally, I Google Paul’s name to see what he’s up to. He married Denise a few years ago and now lives…

Oh my god. Paul and Denise live in the apartment complex my husband and I visited this weekend. We were in New England looking at my husband’s last job offer. The offer we’re probably going to take. Which means Paul and I could be neighbors again. I don’t know what they’d do if we ran into each other…

Denise became a psychologist so maybe she understands borderline now…

Maybe she’d think I was stalking them…

Woah.