Under Clear Skies Chapter 45: BPD

Chapter 45: BPD

Translated by Fefe of Exiled Rebels Scanlations

Warnings: mentions of borderline personality disorder, self-harm, suicide, depression, medication, disassociation 

It was the first time Tang Heng heard those words from his mouth—forget me.

It wasn’t it’s over, not fuck off. It was—forget me. He knew this was some kind of rhetoric. The intention was probably to make him put down everything they had in the past—forget you? Tang Heng looked up, mind clouded, and stared into Li Yuechi’s eyes. “I almost, truly, could have forgotten you.”

“That’s good,” Li Yuechi said.

“No… not good.” Tang Heng coughed hard. It felt like pliers had plunged into his throat, tugging his voice out bit by bit. “When I said ‘forgotten you,’ I meant it literally.”

Li Yuechi froze for a second, his expression faltering.

“As in, I couldn’t remember you, you know?” Tang Heng lowered his head and stared at his pale fingertips. “One day, I went to sleep and I couldn’t remember you when I woke up. I couldn’t remember that I could play guitar either, because I didn’t have calluses on my fingers anymore. I couldn’t say what school I went to for my bachelor’s, couldn’t say where my home was… Li Yuechi, I almost forgot your name too.”

Li Yuechi grabbed Tang Heng’s shoulders, his expression turning scary. “What do you mean?!”

“They say it’s a kind of illness,” Tang Heng dimly recollected that scene, “but I don’t agree.”

 

That blond doctor had said that it was a kind of illness. Tang Heng couldn’t remember the person’s gender. There was only a blur of yellow in his memory. In that quiet consultation room, he avoided the person’s eyes and said to the blur of yellow, I don’t believe it.

He didn’t believe it was a kind of illness. More specifically, BPD.

Borderline Personality Disorder.

Tang, you need to take medicine.

—Can medicine cure the illness?

I hope so.

—If I cure the illness, I won’t think of him anymore?

You won’t be in pain anymore.

—But my pain isn’t because of my illness.

Then why?

—Because of him.

He’d refused to take medicine. He’d started smoking like crazy when he couldn’t focus and he bought a small pocketknife from the supermarket—the foldable kind of knife for cutting fruit. The silver body had been ugly. He clearly remembered that feeling. Perhaps because the manufacturers hadn’t thought of uses other than for cutting fruit, the knife’s tip had been very dull. When it had pierced his palm, the pain had been cold yet hard, slow yet detailed. He’d cut an opening, following the lines on his palm, and blood had gurgled out. Years later when he’d accompanied Fu Liling to vacation on Putuo Mountain, the old fortune teller stopped him by the side of the road. He’d studied his palm and exclaimed, “Your life line is very neat and clear. You’ll at least live to 80 healthily.” Tang Heng had chuckled and given the man 200-kuai. “Thank you for your blessings.”

That was the mark he’d created with the small knife during countless dark nights. Life line? At that time, he’d only wanted to hurry up and die.  

 

“Tang Heng!” Li Yuechi dug into his shoulder, so hard that his brows furrowed. “What kind of illness?!”

“It’s a kind of…” How should he describe it? Long-term depression, self-harm, uncontrollable emotions, and even suicidal impulses? Those weren’t the scariest. “An illness that makes me lose my memory.”

Until one evening, he’d opened his eyes blearily and only thought that his head felt wooden. He couldn’t remember anything.

He knew he’d forgotten some very important things, but he just couldn’t remember—literally.

He started taking medicine.  

White tablets, throwing them into his throat handful after handful without even drinking water. Some were bitter, some were tasteless, some were even faintly sweet.

He’d bought a thick calendar and placed it in the most obvious spot on his table. He’d also stuck a bright yellow post-it on the side with only one word on it: tear.

This was how he’d reminded himself to tear off a page of the calendar every day and emphasize the present date. Not that year, not that day, but the present—London time.

“But you don’t have to worry,” Tang Heng said. “I took medicine and now I’m much better.”

“What exactly happened to you?!” Li Yuechi cried.

Tang Heng didn’t reply. He just continued on by himself, “Because I didn’t want to forget you.”

He’d rather hate him when he was clear-headed and love him when he was sick, instead of forgetting him one day.

Not a bit of that cold expression was left on Li Yuechi’s face. He trained his gaze on Tang Heng’s eyes and cried in panic, “Tang Heng?!”

Tang Heng shook his head. “Give… give me some alone time.”

“No—”

“I won’t do anything.” Tang Heng squeezed out a smile. “Seriously. Don’t be scared.”

 

Only Tang Heng remained in the room.

He sat at the edge of the twin-sized bed, his hands twisting the soft cotton blankets. Because he used too much force, the winding veins bulged on his arm. In the six years he’d separated from Li Yuechi, the six years he’d been entangled with the illness, he believed that he had enough experience to be undefeatable now.

In his worst state, his health had collapsed completely and his mind had been in a mess. It had been difficult even to eat. In countless evenings, he’d grabbed the phone with his gaunt hands, repeatedly dialing Li Yuechi’s number.

What awaited him had always been a phone turned off, like the electromagnetic waves had been sent into a no-man’s land. In a haze, he’d felt that he’d spied the shadow of death. It had been as bright and beautiful as light glinting off a river, flashing across his ceiling.

After that, he’d slowly started taking medicine, slowly went through therapy. With enough time, with enough pills, his condition turned for the better. In the last year of his PhD studies, he stopped the medication under his doctor’s prescription.

Then he’d went to Macao. He’d still feel depressed often, but he wasn’t as pathetic as before. When he wasn’t in the best condition, he’d smoke one or two cigarettes, or swim in the school’s pool. He’d believed that he’d recovered control of his emotions. If he didn’t allow himself to go crazy, then he wouldn’t. If he didn’t allow himself to have a breakdown, then he wouldn’t.

So, his current state caught him by surprise. He didn’t have his pills or his knife. He breathed hard, looking down at his chest as it heaved and collapsed again. He wished he could slowly release that familiar feeling of being out of control—but it didn’t seem to be effective.

Since that night when he’d arrived in Guizhou, everything had gone out of control.

Tang Heng’s shoulders slumped. A moment later, he gave up.

At the very least, he wouldn’t forget Li Yuechi now.

His arms trembled and his heard raced. It would be great if he could cry without reserve, but the tears wouldn’t come. Li Yuechi’s voice replayed in his mind—how do you think I should tell you all of this? This is it. It’s very ugly. Forget me.

He finally understood why Li Yuechi had never contacted him these past six years. It wasn’t that he couldn’t. It was just that he’d given up. At the height of his illness, he’d demanded time and time again at the empty air, Why did you lie to me? Why did you abandon me? Why is it that I put in everything, but I still can’t get your love? That pain hurt more than slicing his palm—countless times more. He knew that Li Yuechi must have endured a pain even heavier than this, was still enduring it now—it turned out that Li Yuechi loved him, but he’d given up.

How could you love someone but also give up on the possibility of being together?

Would you think of him every day, reliving those short memories every day during that long period of not being able to see each other? Time was split into two types: one was the time together with him, one was the rest of the time. And you knew that the time together had already ended, so the rest of life was like fine, gray sand. Every day that you survived was just another grain of sand thrown away, while the day that you were about to face was just picking up another grain of sand. They had no difference.

Is that how you feel too? Li Yuechi.

 

Tang Heng fell onto the bed, feeling all his blood and flesh sucked away. His body was just an empty skeleton, a ruined skin. It had forged on for six years by bluffing, but now, it had been punctured, exposed, and his body shriveled up, all form scattering.

After a few seconds in a haze, he saw a lonely figure appear by the bed.

Tang Heng blinked hard and asked hoarsely, “Are you real?”

“Yes,” the figure said.

“I don’t believe you,” Tang Heng said.  

He bent over and picked up Tang Heng’s hand, grabbing his hands to touch his own face, from his sweaty hair to the corners of his reddened eyes, to his unshaved chin, to a line of hot tears—it had streamed down from the summer of 2012 to the spring of 2018. He bit down on Tang Heng’s damp fingertips, hard, and Tang Heng said, “It hurts.”

“Do you believe me now?”

“…”

“You still don’t?”   

“Every time I think you’re real, I close my eyes, open them again, and you’re gone again.”

“It won’t happen this time,” Li Yuechi said.

“But I still don’t dare to try,” Tang Heng replied.

“Why?”

“It’s too real this time. I can’t bear to.”

Li Yuechi gazed at him with red eyes. A moment later, he said, “Let’s do it.”