Autobiography · Relationships

Pieces of Kyle and Me

Ruby Pipes
“shards of a past life” © jejoenjeM, 2007. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

The first apartment I ever had to myself was a tiny basement studio in Portland. The carpet was purple and the kitchen had red and white checkered linoleum. The walk-in closet had two stairs going up into it and was just big enough for a twin-sized bed and a dresser. Everything about that apartment was tiny and ridiculous. We called it The Dollhouse.

My upstairs neighbor was Kyle. I had just turned twenty-one when I moved in and he was forty-something. Fast friends. We’d hang out by the dumpster and smoke cigarettes every day. He’d come over to my place for beers. Watered my plants when I left town. When the weather was good we’d sit on the curb and drink booze until four in the morning. We talked about everything. I was his date to weddings. He met everyone I dated and my entire family. Our friendship ran deep and I loved him unconditionally.

Kyle was brash and unapologetic. One of those people who took up a ton of space without being a large person. He hugged hard and talked loud and had a ridiculous story about every situation. He’d get sloppy drunk, pick a fight, then spill his guts to me in an alley. He’d climb on top of dumpsters, get kicked out of a bar, and bring three or four guys younger than me home with him.

He had a rule that you could only tell him what he’d done while drunk if you satisfied three requirements. One, it’d been at least three days since he did whatever you were about to tell him. Two, he had a drink in his hand—preferably one you provided for him. And three, you referred to him as “this guy I know” instead of “you” or “Kyle”. He’d shake his head and belt out, “That guy is crazy! Who does stuff like that?!” Smile big and chuckle. Complete detachment from “that guy” being him. Because it wasn’t.

Once he showed up at my apartment around 11 PM with his right ring finger wrapped in a tissue. “I got a paper cut. Do you have a Band-Aid?” he asked as he walked by me, settling onto my futon. Kyle didn’t wait for invitations. He knew he was always welcome.

I dug through my medicine cabinet then sat down next to him. He removed the Kleenex from his finger and held it out. I grinned and he became tiny, fragile in front of me. Suddenly he was just a little kid. Our gaze locked as I wrapped the rubbery fabric around his fingertip, his eyes watering.

And that wasn’t Kyle either. That was a different guy entirely. That was the man who had found out a few years earlier he’s HIV positive. The guy who didn’t know if he’s was going to have someone to take care of him should the medication not be enough. Should his whole life slip away pound by pound. Should it all just fade out into nothing.

Every few months he’d disappear for a week or so. Show back up all road-worn and frazzled. I never asked where he’d been. I knew he’d lost his footing. Crawled back into some squat and started smoking crack again. I’d cook him dinner and he’d fall asleep on my shoulder watching something mindless on Netflix. My heart ached for him, but I never blamed him. It was another person inhabiting his body. It wasn’t the Kyle I called my friend.

It was so easy to be gentle with him. Simple to understand that there were lots of people who looked just like him, pulling in every direction. All trying to take care of him even if their ideas of how to do that were damaging and dangerous.

They were trying. I knew they were all trying to get his needs met.

And every so often I remember I’m different people, too. That when the depression takes hold, it’s not me it’s holding on to. It’s claws are in someone who is terrified of everything. Unsure and unstable. She is not me. That girl is shaking. She considers herself unlovable and fragile, weak and unworthy. She believes that everyone in her life would be better off if she slipped out of existence.

But that girl is not me.

I can feel sympathy for her. Understand how scary it is. But I don’t have to own that pain. I don’t have to be afraid. She’s a different girl than me. She doesn’t get to grab the wheel unless I grant her permission.

My therapists always had me name those women who inhabit my body when I’m having trouble staying on the surface. Describe them. The angry ones, the scared ones. The ones who are always panicking. The drunks. The drug addicts. The ones who pick up on girls at bars. Who go home with strangers. The ones who can’t get off the couch for weeks at a time. Women who are sure their friends, their family are only still around out of obligation or guilt. All of them are separate pieces.

Yes, we can talk about how they make up the whole. How they all need the same thing, are trying to solve the same problems, meet the same needs. They all have my best interests in mind, but different ideas of how to serve them. I know I have to listen to all of them. They all have valid voices. They all have stories, but they do not all get pens. They do not all get to decide where this is going. They don’t all get equal say in who this woman is.

Like the sixteen-year-old me who needed someone to absorb the screaming, but also needed someone to say, “No.”

“Yes. I understand you are hurting. Yes. I understand this is what you think you need. Yes. I know. I know. But no. Give me your keys.”

301 thoughts on “Pieces of Kyle and Me”

  5. Brilliant writing- so easy to feel like I was there when reading – the line about him not being a big person but taking up space is brilliant. Love this work- I hope you publish!

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  8. Thank you for this. You described so many of you not to name chief writer or editor; who are those of you who deserve those leadership positions? What do they value, and how do they hold you up? What do their voices say? Best wishes to you, and please keep writing! 😊

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  10. You need to write more on this!! So intrigued about Kyle… I love your phrase when talking about yourself… ‘They all have stories but they do not all have pens.’ That makes so much sense on so many levels. Your candour is so vivid. Brilliant piece. Thanks for writing it…

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  12. Thanks for the read Ruby. I think this is highly relatable for anyone struggling with their life, those who pursue a better life but can’t do it yet, which basically is all of us here. More often than not, change for the better can’t be achieved because we are convinced that we are inherently less than what we expect us to be. But truth is we can, if we let the right person to take the steer for our life

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    1. It’s an interesting problem, isn’t it? You have to want to be better, but you also have to think that you’re good enough to deserve bette. Life is such a balancing act.

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  21. I was totally absorbed despite being in a rush! I literally couldn’t stop reading it! What a wonderful, evocative piece you’ve written.
    This needs to be submitted for some kind of competition… It’s beautifully direct.

    firefly

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  22. You just described pieces of me with this story… Feels reassuring to know others experience what you once thought were peculiar to only you… Time to go send “those” inhabitants packing.

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  24. Hey hun. This blog post gripped me from the beginning. I can relate to this like you wouldn’t believe. Hell I even had the tiny flat lol!! This kyle, I want to know him more. Your writing is amazing so beautifully put.. you have great talent. Please keep writing. I can’t write at all god know why I’m starting a blog haha. Becca xx

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    1. Thank you so much, Becca. I’m so glad this is relatable. It’s so easy to feel like no one understands what it feels like, but this blog has a been a really great reminder that that’s rarely true.

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  31. I think in many ways, writing about yourself/selves can create control. I know, too, that it can be a cathartic process to give voice and bring light to the darkest, ugliest, most painful parts of yourself and illuminate them briefly, to see that maybe they’re not so terrible as they feel in the dark.

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  33. You had me interested in what you wrote about Kyle. But what you wrote about yourself- that resonated so deep within myself. I blogged for the first time today and also referred to myself as a separate person. Thank you for writing this. Makes me feel a little less alone.

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  34. This felt so familiar to me, just change a few names and situations and you might be writing a snippet of my story. Strange how other people’s words can have that affect. I have a Kyle, he’s different but the same, you know? I call my depression The Monster, because it is certainly not me when such ugliness emerges. So well written, I think many people will relate on many different levels. Thank you for sharing.

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  35. This is amazing! Not only beautifully written, but amazingly told. I’ve struggled from depression and a lot of other mental illness and it just registered with me… Thank you for sharing.

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  36. Thank you for sharing. I, too knew a lovable Kyle. Your title really drew me in because of that. I love your description that he “took up a ton of space without being a large person.” Our Kyle also hugged hard, probably one of the best huggers I ever met. Thank you for letting me reminiscence. Also, I enjoyed reading about how you personalized your emotions separate from yourself. I never thought about compartmentalizing like you’ve described and I think it well help with some struggles many of us face. Thanks so much for your post.

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    1. I hope it helps. Lately I’ve been worried that the ones I thought was the main character isn’t. But I guess that just means I need to practice listening to someone else more.

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  47. Oh. My. Goodness. Woman, this is so painfully beautiful. Not only am I so moved by the raw power of your except, but I’m genuinely jealous of your story-telling abilities. So fucking jealous. Here I am making funnies through my writing. And here you are, so great in words…

    LOVE!

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      1. Thank you, Ruby. I’m so happy to have connected with you through this medium. As someone who battles with the crap that is mental health chaos on a daily basis, I’m so inspired to hear about your chaos. It sounds much worse than mine, but you’re incredibly brave. And thanks! Haha I’m hoping to make but a few people laugh. I’ll be staying in touch!

        Have a wonderful day.

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  49. Ruby, I’ve been reading your work for a few weeks, and it’s just what I need right now. I struggle with intermittent depression, and I didn’t realize the importance of detaching myself from it until several weeks ago when I woke up shaking from a really bad dream. I was walking home and a man in a black car followed me. I was locked out, and as I sat on my front stoop pounding on my door to open, he walked up to me and berated me for what seemed like an hour straight. He was hideous, immensely cruel, and punished me for every bad thing I’ve ever done. I couldn’t make sense of what it all meant until well after I woke up. It was the first time I personified my depression. It allowed me to detach from it to some degree, but I still am terrified of running into him again when I don’t feel strong.

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    1. I’m so glad my writing can bring you some comfort during a difficult time. I’m so glad to hear your personification of your depression looked nothing like you. That makes me feel like you’ll always be strong enough to face him. No matter what he’s capable of, he’ll never be able to become you.

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