by Chase Connor
When the bell over the door went off, I continued to sweep and sing, not caring if the customer caught me singing an embarrassing pop song. I was happy and I didn’t care if they knew I was happy. Tom two-point-one was going to be a fun guy to be. When I saw who the customer was, I did stop singing though, because I hadn’t seen Isaac since the day I had run from the community center. Isaac, standing before me as I swept the floor, looking a little less like a scarecrow, made me feel a little less carefree. Other than my mother, I hadn’t seen anyone who had witnessed my breakdown since I got out of the hospital. This was a first. And I had to navigate it on my own.
“Hey.” Isaac said.
“Hey.”
“You’re, um, back.”
“Mostly, yeah.” I nodded.
We just looked at each other.
“I’m sorry.” I said, walking away. “Let me get out of the way.”
I had been sweeping in front of the coolers. Isaac needed to get a Diet Mountain Dew or something, surely. The sound of cooler opening sounded from behind me as I walked back up to the register to await Isaac and his purchases so that I could ring him up and let him go about his way. Get on with his Monday evening like everyone else. And then I could go back to singing and sweeping the floors and just being Tom.
But I did turn the radio off when I got back up to the register. It was unprofessional—and, okay, embarrassing—to have the music playing while Isaac was in the store. When Isaac finally made his way up to the register, he was holding a Diet Mountain Dew, but he also had a small bag of Takis in his hand. I would have smiled, but I didn’t want to do anything to draw attention to the fact that he was willingly buying food, thus making him rethink his choices and not eat.
“This going to be it?” I asked as he set his items on the counter.
“Yeah.” He nodded, reaching for his wallet, avoiding eye contact.
I rang up the items and announced the total but Isaac didn’t move to hand me a card or cash. For what seemed like a really long time, but was probably no more than a few seconds, he stood there, looking down. Finally, his eyes came up to meet mine. Isaac had pretty eyes. Especially when they didn’t look so sunken into his skull.
“Are you better?” He asked gently.
“Define better.” I smiled.
He just looked at me.
“I’m getting there.” I relented. “You?”
“Getting there.” He agreed. “I’ve gained ten pounds in the last two months. So, my doctors and parents are happy. Ish.”
I smiled.
“My meds are adjusted.” I said. “I think…no, they’re working.”
“But how do you feel?”
I thought about that.
“Good.” I said. “I think pretty good, actually. I mean, yeah, it’s not, um, easy or anything…feeling good…but I feel good.”
He gave a small smile.
“Yourself?”
“A little guilty.” He shrugged. “For feeling good about gaining weight. For starting to love the taste of food again. But, yeah. I’ll just swallow that down with these Takis I guess.”
He chuckled at that, so I did, too.
“Weird, isn’t it?” He asked. “Feeling guilty about not wanting to be sick anymore.”
I nodded.
“I don’t want to be crazy anymore.” I agreed.
“Me either.”
“So…cash or card?” I prompted him.
He handed me cash.
“You coming back to group?”
“My doctor wants me to start back next week.” I nodded. “We’ll see. I think I want to come back to group. So, I’m going to try to make myself come back to group.”
Isaac watched me as I handed him his change and closed the register. He put his change in his wallet and put his wallet back into his pocket without looking away from my eyes.
“If I made you feel guilty…or anything…by pressuring you about a date, I’m really sorry, Tom.” He said.
“I can make myself feel guilty without your help.” I replied evenly. “But thank you for apologizing. If forgiveness was required, you would have it.”
He smiled gently.
“You are very good looking, Isaac.” I said. “And you are a very nice guy—maybe not to yourself—but to everyone else. None of that has to do with me saying ‘no’. I had too many problems…I have a lot of catching up to do, finding out who Tom is…to worry about dating someone. That’s an absolute truth.”
“Okay.” He nodded. “I believe you.”
“Thank you.”
Isaac smiled again and grabbed his Takis and Diet Mountain Dew and headed towards the door, his pants not quite sagging off of his ass as much as they had before. When he got to the door, I spoke up.
“So—did you figure out your real big truth yet?” I asked. “While I was in the hospital, I mean?”
He turned to me.
“Yeah.” He said. “I’m fucked in the head.”
I nodded. “That’s a pretty big truth. At least, a pretty big one to admit out loud.”
“You’re telling me.” He sighed. “Hard to admit that maybe the real big truth is that there is no big truth. Maybe I’m just fucked in the head.”
He laughed, so I laughed with him. Laughter helps take the sting out of the truth sometimes. And there’s nothing wrong with laughing when things are painfully bad, but on their way to getting better. Or even when they’re not, I suppose.
“What about you?” He asked. “Did you discover your big truth in the hospital? Figure out what makes Tom crazy?”
My first instinct, as it had been for years, was to tell some half-truth or even an outright lie. But I choked back that instinct, and told the truth.
“I never lied about knowing my big truth.” I shrugged. “I’ve always known my big truth. I just have to find the courage to tell it.”
“Maybe soon.” He shrugged.
I gave an upward nod. “Maybe.”
“I hope I see you next week, Tom.”
“You probably will.” I agreed with a smile.
Then he was gone. And I watched as he walked to his car and drove away. So, I turned the radio back on, a new horrible pop song on the radio, and I started to sing and finished up the sweeping.
The Devil is in the Details
Do you want to know a real, honest to goodness truth? I didn’t really like Dally all that much. But I did love Dally. I loved Dally a lot. And I hated what he had gone through. I hated that he could never forgive John or himself. Like Dally, though? Not really. He was kind of a dick. I mean, yeah, I was a dick a lot of the time, too. Especially once the lying started, once I started playing games with my psychiatrist, my mom, people in group, the cops…everyone. Truthfully, I don’t know how anyone could stand to be around me because, in the end, I hated myself. I still do a little. Okay, maybe I didn’t hate myself, but I didn’t like myself.
Dr. Renfro wanted to get me to a place where I could at least like myself again, where I wouldn’t feel like everything in the past made me a horrible person. Another honest truth—I liked Dr. Renfro. And I wish I had realized that the first time I had walked into his office for my first appointment. I hated that it took two trips to the hospital for me to realize that the man had my best interests in mind. That he just wanted me to be the version of Tom that I wanted to be—to be able to face my truth. To tell it. To own that trauma, know there was nothing I could do to change it, even if it had changed me, and learn how to be myself in spite of it.
Mental illness, even if it’s not a lifelong condition—though that was yet to be seen in my case—does this odd thing to a person. People rarely just wake up crazy one day after a lifetime of being okay. The only thing I know to compare it to is a stalagmite. A drip begins, maybe even a trickle, from the ceiling of a cave. You come back the next day, everything seems the same. You come back in a year, maybe a slight bump on the ground. You come back in five years, maybe the bump is slightly bigger, but you may not notice because
something so miniscule happening over such a long period of time is not that noticeable. Come back in a thousand years, you have a ten-centimeter-tall formation from that drip in the ceiling. Come back in two-hundred-thousand years, you have a full-on spike you could impale someone on seemingly growing out of the floor of the cave.
Well, when the hell did that happen??
Think back over time and you’ll remember the little signs that that drip from the ceiling was working, building up, diligently doing what it is supposed to do while you ignore it and pretend everything is the same as it ever was. That’s mental illness. You leave the back door open and the bugs will eventually wander in, then more bugs, then more bugs, and suddenly you’re left wondering where this infestation came from.
That was what happened with my mental illness. Little by little and bit by bit, my mental illness crept in the cracks the trauma had created and before I even realized it had happened, I had gone off of the deep end. I was on pills and going to therapy and in the hospital—twice—and having a breakdown and acting like an asshole. And I didn’t even know the reason for any of it because mental illness had changed me just so, incrementally, over days and weeks and years that I didn’t notice, nor did I feel that something was wrong. I knew I was anxious and depressed and that I couldn’t stop lying—but mental illness told me that this was just the way I was. This was the way I survived. This was normal for Tom.
And now I can’t even tell a linear story about what it was like to be me from The Summer of John until now. I can’t put the history of the worst period of my mental illness in order because it all ran together. I don’t even know the exact moment that it started creeping in—and the sedatives and tranquilizers and anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds—they put everything in a fog. But I know this much is true:
I was a victim. Dally was a victim. We did our best to survive the trauma of summer camp and John. We survived The Summer of John. And then we spent high school and most of the summer after high school still surviving. And now Dally and John are dead and I’m still surviving. Little by little. Bit by bit. That’s the important thing. Everything else is just details.
The Devil is in the details, though, right? The abbreviated version of my story of mental illness leaves out some very important details. Some I can’t even begin to remember, some I don’t want to remember, and some I can’t forget. The details I can’t forget are the ones that hold my Big Truth. Those details that matter the most, the ones I can’t forget, are the ones I have to be brave enough to say out loud.
One time, after Dally had attempted suicide but shortly before Dally committed suicide, after I had punched him at the carnival, after he had forgiven me and we were talking again, but before I was supposed to leave for college in California, we had a late-night talk in the park.
“Promise you’ll keep the truth to yourself?” He had asked.
I had asked him why we had to keep lying now that it was obvious that lying was part of the bigger problem.
“Because the truth doesn’t set you free, Tom.” He said. “The truth just puts you in a different cage.”
Well, maybe that’s true. Maybe truth and lies are two different cages that bind you in different ways. But now Dally was dead. Neither the truth nor the lies could hurt him anymore. I didn’t have to ask anyone’s permission to choose my own prison because the lies and the truth affected only me now. And I knew I didn’t like the prison we had built with lies.
A Little Shame, A Lot of Guilt
Everyone was so nervous that it was palpable when I entered group and sat down with everyone else. Jared had been replaced by someone else and this was my first time attending in nearly five months. Everyone seemed to not know what to say to me, if they should say anything to me, or if they should even look at me. Even Jeff, who was the leader of the group, seemed to not know how he should react to my presence or how to even interact with me. So, mostly, he ignored me as he smiled at everyone in the group and asked everyone how they were doing.
Isaac gave me a quick, easy smile from his spot at the other side of the circle and I smiled back, but otherwise, I simply responded that I was “fine” when Jeff asked how everyone was doing. People shared feelings about Jared now that two months had passed, especially the kids who had also had problems with drugs. Everyone had been scared during the days and weeks after Jared’s OD. One had relapsed and started using again, one was worried that they would get depressed and do something to harm themselves. One had gotten as far away from drugs as they could so as to avoid the same possible mistake as Jared. Three kids, three different responses. That’s mental illness and addiction for you. Diversity.
The new kid, a girl, barely seventeen-years-old had been diagnosed as BPD—Borderline Personality Disorder—very recently and didn’t know how to cope with that. She was both scared of what that meant and relieved that she now had a reason for her behavior. If you know the reason, maybe you can do something to fix a problem. The Big Truth, right? Sometimes the truth can set you free. Sometimes it can lock you in a cage. But, either way, it’s better than a bunch of lies.
“Isaac,” Jeff addressed him second to last, “how are you managing, bud? Everything going okay in Isaac World?”
“Yeah.” Isaac replied. “I mean, I think so. Sometimes I’m sure that everything is fine and other times I’m worried that I’m getting a little too comfortable. I’ll eat a good dinner, a fairly reasonable amount, and then, when I go to bed, I’m worried that I’ll wake up and force myself to puke—anorexia into bulimia, ya’ know? Or maybe I’ll wake up in the morning and my brain will tell me I can’t eat breakfast because I had five-hundred calories at dinner.”
So, Isaac had told everyone his real diagnosis. That was good. I think.
“I’ve only told one person this so far,” Isaac chewed at his lip, “I haven’t even said anything to my doctors or anything. But I finally realized that maybe I’m just fucked up in the head, ya’ know? Why does there have to be a reason for why I am the way I am? Because there isn’t one. I just have a mental illness. It’s biology or chemistry. I’m Isaac and I have anorexia. I’ll always have anorexia. But I can learn to not be anorexic. And I’m so tired of being anorexic and being ashamed and I just want to not be either anymore.”
Isaac had tears starting to slide down his cheeks but he was keeping himself together for the most part. He wasn’t going to break down or fall apart.
“Maybe I can’t stop having anorexia, but I can stop being ashamed.” He shrugged and then reached up to rub his tears away with the back of his hand. “I can stop denying the fact that I’m fucked in the head—like a lot of people—and accept that I have work to do. That’s the only way I’m going to be better.”
Jeff just smiled at Isaac as Isaac sat back in his seat, wiping at his eyes and sniffling, trying to not show how vulnerable he obviously felt. I felt bad for Isaac. At least when I had cried it had been with my doctor in an office, just the two of us, not surrounded by five other people watching with morbid fascination. It took some balls to talk so openly like Isaac had and I was proud of him.
“Thank you for sharing that with us, Isaac.” Jeff nodded at him.
And then six heads turned and six pairs of eyes were one me. I knew what that meant and it should have made me anxious. But it didn’t. I felt strangely calm.
“Tom, I know it’s your first time back, and that might be scary, but do you feel like sharing how you’re doing with us?”
I nodded.
Jeff gestured for me to say what I felt like saying.
“I feel guilty.” I said. “I’ve felt guilty for six years. I feel guilty that things didn’t go differently at summer camp with John and Dally. I feel guilty that I didn’t say anything about John. That I continued to not say anything about John. That I agreed to lie for Dally. I feel guilty that I hated Dally for a really long time—and maybe I still do a little. I feel guilty that I don’t hate John, but when I think of him, I feel nothing. Well, maybe a litt
le bit of relief that he’s dead. I feel guilty that I’ve told so many lies and I haven’t been good to myself. And I feel responsible for Dally’s suicide.”
Crystal and Isaac both had a sudden light in their eyes, finally an answer to their question about how Dally died.
“I feel guilty because I wish I had told everyone that Dally’s first attempt was an actual suicide attempt and that he needed help with his mental health. I should have demanded it. I feel guilty that I wasn’t there when he tried the second time and succeeded. If ‘succeeded’ is the right word for someone committing suicide. And I’ve felt guilty every day since because I’ve continued to lie for Dally. And, I guess, for me. Mostly, I just feel guilty because I’ve allowed a summer in a lifetime of summers to redefine who I am.”
Jeff watched me as I spoke and all the other kids were leaning in, as though waiting for some big revelation.
“Ninety-three days in a psych facility seems to have helped some.” I gave a small chuckle, though I wasn’t amused. “My meds are adjusted and my doctors are really great—like they’ve always been. I feel guilty for treating them like they were the enemies for so long. I feel good. And I feel guilty about that, too. Because I’m alive and able to feel good. But…I’m working really hard and trying really hard and I know that I’ll get better. I just have to keep trying and working and have patience and show myself kindness. To forgive myself for everything. And, I really feel guilty for hating my mother for doing her best to do right by me and thinking she was an idiot for not understanding. Because how could she understand, ya’ know? How could she know the deepest darkest thoughts in my head unless I shared them? She was just doing the best she could for me—just like Dally’s parents tried to do for him. It’s not their fault if it’s not the right thing or not good enough or even ridiculous. No one can be helped if they aren’t willing to tell someone else what it is that they need. So, yeah, mostly I feel guilty. But, otherwise, I feel pretty good.”