I snort. “Ethan isn’t my ex. He never wanted to be anything to me,” I argue, anger dripping with every word. The rage I felt the last time we discussed Ethan simmers under the surface. I hate him in an inexplicable way and with the same intensity as when I loved him once. Fine, the anger is now a fire with uncontrollable flames that burn me from the inside out. “He fucking used me and didn’t even love me. The day he said ‘I love you’ was when he thought I was about to die.”
The doc scribbles on his tablet. “Who else has treated you like that?”
I shake my head.
“Has anyone ever befriended you because you’re famous? How about calling you because they needed money but never reaching out to you just to check if you’re fine? Is there anyone who might have left when you needed them the most?”
“I’m not angry at my mother but at God or whoever decided to take her away from me. They had already taken my father—who I never met.” I pause, take a breath, and then a drink of water. “I’ve yet to figure out why my mom’s friend didn’t take care of me.”
“I never mentioned your mom, but you seem apprehensive about her death. Would you like to talk about this today?”
Everything I’ve been saving for years rushes through me like a deadly hurricane, tearing down everything I believed for years. I’m angry at the world. At my father because he might’ve saved the country, but what about me?
I needed him.
He could’ve been there when Mom died.
I’m mad at every person in the foster system who didn’t care about me. All those teachers who yelled at me because I didn’t pay attention, I didn’t study, I…Did they ever ask if I was okay? A malnourished child with PTSD and learning disabilities needed their understanding, not their rage.
While my mother was sick, I learned to be quiet and only show positive emotions. I never let myself cry or be angry. She wanted to see me happy. I live to please people because maybe then they won’t leave me.
“It’s okay to feel emotions,” my therapist assures me. “This might be the most challenging part of your recovery. You’re going to have to face the vast range of feelings in this world—positive and negative—and deal with them. We can spend years analyzing your childhood, but if you’re not willing to confront your emotions and learn how to handle them, you’ll always search for a way to quiet them, again.”
I tap my leg several times as I think through everything he just said. The only person I allowed to see me angry, jealous, sad—or showed any other emotion that wasn’t just positive—was Ethan.
“Do you think it was because sex between us numbed them?”
“What are you talking about?” Mr. Arnes asks.
“I felt everything around him. My guess is that maybe it was okay because my outlet to deal with them was sex.”
“That’s an option,” he states.
“But not the right answer, is it?”
He shrugs. “It’s hard to tell. What if the reason is because he was safe, and you could be yourself around him?”
His words slow down the fire. It’s still burning, but the intensity has diminished enough so I can process his question.
“We were each other’s safety net. Those nights when I started sleeping with him to soothe him I…I felt less alone. I trusted him. How can I love someone so much and hate him at the same time? I want to punch him and yet hug him because I know he has his own hell.”
He shrugs and answers with one of those questions I hate, “Is that how you feel?”
“Dude, I’m here to receive help, not a thunderstorm of questions that mean the same. I bet one of your classes in college was: A million ways to ask ‘And how does that make you feel?’”
He laughs. “Deflection,” he states, pointing toward the jar of candy. “Is your anxiety spiking up?”
I grab a lollipop. They calm me every time I have anxiety.
“I have trouble understanding my relationship with Ethan,” I state. “He’s the only person who has made me angry, and I let him know that I’m pissed at him.”
I recall my seventeenth birthday, when we agreed he’d take my virginity, but he upset me so much I called it off. We didn’t have make-up sex nor angry sex. After that, we were over for a few years.
“At one point, it was impossible to discuss our problems. Everyone was around. That’s when I started smoking weed.”
“Maybe you felt safe enough to be yourself around him until you didn’t?”
“Yes?”
Was I only myself when it was the two of us? Does that make me a hypocrite? I was doing the same thing that he did. It felt different because I never realized I was hiding anything.
“This is where I ask again,” he says. “Are you willing to do the work, or would you rather finish the program now?”
“Of course I want to continue,” I say, even as thousands of questions push their way into my mind. “What if I have so much baggage that I never leave this place?”
“One step at a time,” he says. “By the way, that homework is due tomorrow.”
“I need more than a day,” I complain.
He shrugs. “You’ve lost a couple of weeks. There’s a lot of catching up to do.”
Usually, I’d say fuck you and pack my things. I don’t, but I say, “You could’ve told me this week when I was bitching about the assignment.”
“I could’ve, but some people learn the hard way.” He shrugs.
“That’s not who I want to be,” I say furiously.
“Then change,” he suggests. “We discussed this during our first session. I’m not here to transform you, just to guide you. If you want to be different, start with yourself.”
“You’re a terrible Mr. Miyagi.”
He rolls his eyes. “I skipped Miyagi 101 in college.”
“Look at you, cracking jokes, Mr. Arnes.” I grab my stuff, stand up and say, “Maybe next week I’ll teach you how to deliver them with more enthusiasm.”
Chapter Eight
Zeke,
I don’t know when you’ll receive this letter. If I recall, the program didn’t have restrictions about communicating with friends and family. I might be confusing it with something else. There’s also the possibility that you won’t open this letter.
I hope that you’re having a better time than I am.
Of course, this letter isn’t about me or us.
I gave Tucker and Hannah your new whereabouts. I didn’t disclose the incident that made us switch you to LR&R. There’s been a lot going on with Nana and Tucker. I didn’t want to add to their load.
It’s insane that I’m working with my issues, and here I am, mailing you a letter where I tell you about my latest lie and probably asking you to keep it—at least for now.
Are you comfortable? Is there anything I can send you?
The other day, I spoke to someone about Hannah’s project and the letters she exchanged with us during her journey. I wish we had the kind of relationship that would allow us to discuss our issues, our feelings, and our every day through the written word. I understand why you wouldn’t do it. Words aren’t your thing.