Ruining You (5 page)

Rolling over, I notice the
clock reads 7 A.M. On Mondays, I have early sessions with Dr. Raines. Slowly, I
rise out of bed to stretch my stiff body. My mind is still hazy from slumber. I
grab a pair of black yoga pants, a grey t-shirt, and my shower items. Sliding
on my black ballet slippers, I head down the hall to the bathroom.

As I pass by the guy’s
bathroom, the door suddenly swings opens, and out charges the new guy. He
crashes into me, knocking everything from my hands.

“Ow...hey, watch where you
are going!” Huffing, I bend down to pick it all up.

“Listen, I’m sorry,” he
says, squatting down at the same time to help me retrieve my items.

In haste, I swiftly raise my
head and jar my forehead against his chin. My hands go to my head as the pain
radiates through my skull. God, it hurts. “Damn! Really?!? I can get my own
stuff.” I hurriedly grab the scattered items and stand up.

“Are you always a bitch or
am I just the lucky one?” he asks before turning and walking away.

I glare at his back as he
leaves, and his words ring in my head. Is this what I’ve become? For the past
two years, most guys have landed in the following three categories: friend,
foe, or fuck. More often than not, they can find themselves in the last
category because my idea of control revolved around the concept of controlling
my body. Unfortunately, that notion has messed with my mindset, how I look at
guys, and how I perceive that they look at me.

After showering, I head over
to the cafeteria. It’s a public space shared by the entire facility. At any
given time, fifty plus people can be sitting around eating. I grab a cup of
coffee and a banana then head to an empty table. Minutes later, Dr. Gale speaks
to me as he walks by.

“Morning, James.”

“You called me Jay the other
day.” That must have caught his attention because he stops and turns around.

“When?”

“During our little chat. I
think I’m getting through to you, Dr. Gale.”

“I don’t know about getting
through to me. Driving me bonkers may be a more apt description. See you later
this afternoon, James.” He smiles and walks away.

Smiling, I have to admit, he
is driving me a little crazy with his need to always have the last word. I
throw away my trash and walk over to Dr. Raines’s office. Her door is always
open when she is waiting for me to arrive.

“Good Morning, Jay,” Dr.
Raines says with a smile on her face and in her voice. She is already sitting
in one of the chairs that face each other in the back of her office. With her
hair in a bun, prim black suit, and matching pumps, an air of authority
surrounds her.

“Morning, Dr. Raines,” I
reply, sitting down in the empty chair.

“So, how did your visit with
your mother go yesterday?”

“Fine..,” I start to tell
her but quickly change my direction, “actually, not so fine.” Suddenly, my
words can’t come out fast enough, and I tell her everything I said to my mother
during her visit. When I finish, we both fall silent.

“Jay, how did you feel
afterwards? Give me the first word that comes to mind.”

I think about what she is
asking for a second before I reply, “Relief.”

“From what?” Dr. Raines
asks.

“From saying how I felt. For
getting the anger that I didn’t know I even had off my chest. But then, that
also left me feeling sad for how I spoke to her. She didn’t deserve that.”

“I know we’ve spoken about
this before, but some would say that, in a sense, you were abandoned. I’m not blaming
your parents, but your emotional state could have been much better had you had
their support. Your mother and I have discussed this in the past. She takes
full responsibility for not being there when you needed her. You needed to have
that discussion, and more importantly, she needs to know how you feel.”

I notice that she said my
mother took full responsibility but not my father.

“What about my father? I
know you have spoken to him. Does he also take responsibility?”

Dr. Raines gently smiles at
me and clasps her hands. “Have you spoken to your father recently?”

Looking directly into her
eyes, I shake my head.

“How does that make you
feel? Again, give me the first words that you think of.”

“Worthless. Broken. Unloved.
Unforgiveable. Ashamed. Take your pick. I feel like he’s avoiding me. I don’t
know what to say to make anything better, and it’s not like I’ve been given the
chance anyway.”

“Does your mother know how
you feel about your father?”

“No. She can’t handle it.
She is barely holding it together for me. That’s why I feel guilty about coming
down so hard on her yesterday.”

“You do know that eventually
you will have to speak to him and tell him how you feel?” Dr. Raines
straightens in her chair and leans forward. “He loves you, Jay. That hasn’t changed.
He is just trying to figure out this new life. Is your mother coming to visit
on Thanksgiving?”

“No, she’ll be here next
week. She wanted to, but I told her I was fine. I’m hoping she’ll go visit my
grandmother like we normally do.”

“Do you think your mother is
living her normal life now?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Do you honestly believe
that all of your lives haven’t been majorly disrupted? That life can return to
a normal pattern for any of you? I only ask that, Jay, because I want you to
understand that everyone you were connected with has experienced an irrevocably
changed life from the moment you decided to try and take yours. You can’t make
decisions based on how everything used to be. I just want you to be aware of
that.”

Her words stun me. I had a
pretty good understanding of how my death would have affected my family, but I
never considered the results of a botched suicide attempt. I never thought
about how they would have to live with that knowledge. It was different when it
was just my secret.

“Just think about that this
week. We will discuss it more tomorrow. Do keep in mind that we only have two
more sessions this week since it’s a holiday.”

Standing, I really don’t
listen to much more that she says. I leave the office and walk back to my room
with my mind abuzz from the things she said. Grabbing my iPod, I lie down on my
bed. I put in my ear buds and listen to the first song that plays, letting it
blast into my head.

I always knew that living
was harder that dying, but until today, I had not realized that it might just
be harder on those around me. Do they ask the same questions that I ask myself?
Why me? Why now? Why not me? Molly wrote me a letter a couple of weeks ago that
talked about how she blamed herself for not being there. I wanted so badly to
write her back to tell her that it wasn’t her fault and that she couldn’t have
changed anything, but when I sat down the write the letter, the words never
came. My mother also wrote a letter saying that she didn’t know where to go from
here.

What have I done to those
around me? What have I done to make them second guess their choices and their
beliefs? Now, they have to live with the knowledge that I am actually willing
to do it. They now know that I will pull the trigger, slice my wrists, or
swallow the pills. What worry they must be going through. It doesn’t matter
what I want now; I made a promise to live. I will keep that damn promise no
matter what I do, but the people around me, they don’t know about that.

God, I really need to get
out of this room. I grab my iPod and walk down to the common area. It’s a small
room with a couple of plush couches, chairs, and several wall-mounted flat
screen TVs. We are only allowed to watch a selection of approved movies, so I
never pay any attention to them. Looking around for a place to sit down, I
notice the only available chair is in the back corner. There’s just one
problem. New guy is strumming his guitar in the adjacent seat.

Choices: Stay or go? Going
is the easiest, but it will leave me still stuck in my head. As for staying,
well, maybe I have been wrong about him, and it’s time I move forward. I
glimpse at him again as his shaggy brown head bobs up and down, lost in his
music. I guess he is about six feet tall, and even in my “nun-ish” state, I
notice he has a decent body. With his light brown skin and dark features, he
stands out. Again, I ponder why he is here. He has on a black t-shirt that fits
snuggly across his chest and worn grey sweatpants with the knees ripped out.
His feet are bare, but that is common around here.

Making my decision, I walk
towards the empty chair as he glances in my direction. His fingers freeze from
strumming, and his dark coffee colored eyes warily stare at me. I shoot him a
small grin, and one of his eyebrows raises in question. Suddenly, I stop
walking and our gazes lock. I desperately want to turn and walk away, but I
can’t. My feet, on their own accord, start towards him again. His eyes never
leave mine.

As I speak, my voice shakes
with emotion, “Do you mind if I sit here?”

“Depends. Are you going to
bite my head off?” 

Shaking my head, I sit down
in the chair cross-legged and fidget with my iPod. The weighted pressure of his
eyes clothes me in anxiety. Before I can place my ear buds in, I hear him clear
his throat.

“What? Do I not at least get
a ‘Hi’ or maybe even a ‘What’s up?’” he asks, winking at me.

“I thought we talked about
the whole flirting thing?” I say sarcastically.

He chuckles and shakes his
head. He leans in and whispers back, “Last I checked, being friendly wasn’t the
same as flirting.” His eyes trace me from head to toe. “Though, I’ll let you in
on a little secret. You’re not my type.” Moving back in his chair, he begins to
play, what I think is “All Apologies” on his guitar.

Okay, well, that was
embarrassing. Not to mention that I am starting to recognize just how much I do
sound like a bitch -- who I hate and who I need to change.

“I am such a bitch.” My eyes
go wide, realizing that I may have said that out loud. He snorts, so I know I made
a public announcement.

As he looks at me, his
fingers slide up and down the neck of the guitar. I can’t help but notice that
he has nice strong hands. He puts the guitar down and turns to face me.

“The name is Eli. Just in
case you are wondering. Like the biblical prophet, not the football player,” he
says, holding his hand out to me.

“Jay,” I reply back as I
reach for his hand.

“Well, Jay. Doesn’t seem
like you have too many friends around here. Want to hear the reasons why I
think that is?” Smiling at me, he tugs on my hand one last time and lets go. He
picks up his guitar again, sits back in the chair, and plays some riffs.

Staring at him, I wonder if
I have lost my mind. Something about him reminds me of someone, but I can’t
think of who it is. Plus, I’m at a loss for words, and that doesn’t happen
often.

“No answer necessary. You
push everyone away so you can keep everything bottled up inside, or you could
just be a raging bitch. I like to think the best about people, so I’ll go with
option A,” he says with a grin.

Is this guy for real?
Gritting my teeth, I hold back every scathing comment that is coming up, but
the weirdest thing happens. I laugh. Hard. Looking at him, I try to think of
something to say, but the only thing that comes to mind makes no sense
whatsoever, so of course, it spills from my mouth.

“I think you have nice
hands.”

My God, did I just say that
I think he has nice hands? For the love of all that is holy, please let the
ground open up and swallow me whole. He just reminds me of someone, and who
that it is, I don’t know. It lingers on the edge of my mind.

He lightly laughs, and with
a smirk on this face, says, “Thanks, my mother gave them to me, whoever she
was. Now, what did your mother give you?”

“Everything, I guess. My dark
hair and gray eyes are the same as hers. My height is from my dad though.”

“Are you close to your
parents?” he asks with eyes fixed on me.

“I think I used to be. It
seems so long ago now.” He seems really interested in what I have to say. “What
about you? Are you close to your parents?”