The Gravity of Nothing

by Chase Connor

  I sat back in my seat, done talking. Everyone continued to stare at me. And I still wasn’t anxious or nervous. I was calm. That was the most honest I had been with someone who wasn’t my doctor or mother in a very long time. That made me feel better. Less guilty. Maybe it wouldn’t last and I’d be beating myself up in my own head before group was over, but celebrate the victories for they are few, right?

  “Anything else?” Jeff asked gently.

  “No.” I shrugged.

  Jeff waited the space of a breath, then he dismissed group. I stood, like always, and I still walked through the circle of chairs like always, but I didn’t walk like I would plow through anyone in my way. I simply walked out of the community center, through the front doors, and sat down on the planter. I still wasn’t allowed to drive, so I began waiting for my mom. Like always, Isaac walked out and stood before me.

  “Got a smoke?” He smiled.

  “I quit.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “While I was in the hospital. I haven’t smoked in…like ten weeks now, I think?”

  “Good for you. Seriously.”

  I shrugged. He walked over and sat down beside me on the planter, making sure to leave space between us. I appreciated that.

  “Must have been hard.” I said, turning my head to look at him. “Admitting that you’re just fucking crazy.”

  He laughed.

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “No one touched me inappropriately in the past. I’ve never been sexually assaulted. I wasn’t trying to make myself small so that I couldn’t hold anything else. I wasn’t trying to make myself unattractive. I’m just…I have a problem. Everyone has problems, mine is just really fucked up and something chemical in my brain is wonky and can’t be fought like normal problems. And…that might be more embarrassing than anything. It makes me feel shame because I have to admit that I am not in control—that my mind and body are at war and I’m stuck in the middle.”

  I could understand that.

  “Kinda sucks having to tell your mom and dad you’re not in control of yourself when you also came out as gay to them.” He sighed. “Makes them think that maybe the ‘gay thing’ can be fixed, too, ya’ know?”

  I laughed loudly at that.

  “If only you could make yourself repulsed by dick like you did food, huh?” I teased.

  “Exactly.” He laughed with me.

  We sat there for a few moments while our laughter tapered off.

  “I’m glad you’re doing better, Tom.” He said. “I’m glad that you want to feel better. Not be crazy.”

  “Me, too. And I’m glad that you don’t want to be crazy either.”

  “Wanna go out to the lake sometime?” He asked lowly. “Maybe we can talk more about the truth? I don’t know…be friends?”

  I thought about that for a minute, considering all the possible outcomes of that scenario. After giving myself a moment to really think, I realized that Isaac and I were never going to work.

  “I think that’s a bad idea, Isaac.” I said. “I think I need space from…all of that. But I think you should definitely date once you gain ten or twenty more pounds. Once you’ve gotten a better handle on your own brand of crazy.”

  He chuckled but it was sad.

  “I really do like you.” He said.

  “Why?”

  Moments and breaths passed and he didn’t have a response.

  “Have you dated a guy before?” I asked.

  He chewed at his lip and shook his head.

  “How many gay guys have you met before?” I asked.

  “None my age.” He sighed.

  I turned my head to smile at him.

  “Get out.” I nodded slowly. “Meet some guys. There’s a lot of great ones out there. Some really awful ones, too, but I think you might be able to tell the difference now.”

  He gave a bitter smile.

  “We can’t be friends?”

  “Not right now.” I replied. “I just need to not have any complications right now. And being friends with you will get complicated. Because I don’t know boundaries right now. I don’t think I ever have. Summer camp and Dally and John kind of stunted that education, ya’ know?”

  He nodded.

  “Will you do me a favor?”

  “If I can, sure.”

  “Tell me a truth.” He said.

  I took a deep breath and turned my head to stare off towards the parking lot. What truth was I willing to tell Isaac after all of the truth I had somehow been able to tell in group?

  “Your butt looked good in your pants the other night.”

  Isaac blushed deeply and laughed.

  “So…the new eating plan is working I think.”

  “I like that truth.” Isaac tried to stop laughing but failed. “But I was thinking of maybe a real truth. About you.”

  I waited until he got his laughing completely under control and then turned to him, deciding to be completely honest.

  “It scares me to tell the truth.” I said evenly. “So…I think I agreed to lie for Dally six years ago because I was too ashamed to tell the truth. And, I think, the truth will hurt a lot of people. So, I’m stuck between being ashamed and worrying about hurting other people, even though I know that lying hurt me and so many other people so much along the way. That’s fucked up right?”

  “A little bit.” He agreed.

  Then I saw my mother’s car entering the parking lot. I stood up and smiled down at Isaac.

  “Maybe we’ll see each other in group and the convenience store and…one day we’ll be real friends?” I shrugged. “Maybe not. But…I’m glad that I feel like I know you a little bit, Isaac. It’s nice feeling like I might actually know someone for real.”

  “I’m glad that I know you a little bit, too, Tom.”

  “See ya’ ‘round?”

  “See ya’.” He agreed with a nod.

  Mom’s car pulled up and I climbed inside and I gave Isaac a smile as I shut the door and strapped on my seatbelt. Then we were driving away and I did my best to forget about group and Isaac and everything for a minute. And I tried to have a civilized conversation with my mother on the ride home. That was hard, too, but at least it was real.

  Between You & Me

  Dr. Renfro had taken my blood pressure, my weight—he was not super happy that I had lost five pounds—my temperature, checked my arms and legs and torso, pretty much everywhere for any signs of self-harm. But, weight loss aside, he was pretty happy with how I was doing. When I pointed out to him that I still weighed more than I did when I had entered the hospital for the second time, but now I was just more active and had lost weight, he forgot about the five pounds I had shed. Mostly. He still said it concerned him. Of course it did. How can you be a doctor if you’re not concerned about something with each patient visit, right?

  That was a truth, though, the reason I had lost weight. When I entered the hospital, I weighed one-hundred-fifty-two pounds. I’m six-feet tall and I had weighed a buck and a half and some change. That’s how I’m built. When I entered the hospital and was drugged up, laying around, sitting around, having food set in front of me that I would just eat without thinking about hungry and not hungry, I gained weight. When I left the hospital, no longer in a druggy haze, able to get up and move around, work at the store, and ate like I normally did, I lost the weight. There was nothing bad going on behind the scenes. I wasn’t starving myself. I even overate at times.

  I’m twenty-years old. I have a twenty-year old’s metabolism and energy. Check back when I’m thirty and have a gut and those five pounds lost will be a blessing, right? Besides, I still weighed one-hundred-and-sixty pounds, so I definitely wasn’t unhealthy. Dr. Renfro was just going to have to suck that one up because there was nothing I could do about being slightly scrawny and twenty-years old. At least I wasn’t as crazy as I was, so there was something to celebrate and gloss over the weight loss.

  Dr. Renfro was pleased that there were no signs of bashi
ng or cutting or banging or any of that bullshit. Not that I had ever done that before. However, I guess that it’s kind of common for someone like myself to do those kinds of things. And by “someone like myself” I mean someone who spent time in a mental hospital and feels guilty about a lot of shit—even if he shouldn’t feel guilty about any of it. But, some people like me punish themselves in some pretty fucked up ways, so I couldn’t blame Dr. Renfro for basically making me strip down to my skivvies for examination.

  That was kind of tough. I always find it difficult to strip down in front of other guys. I’m not self-conscious—my body is a pretty standard body. Nothing amazing but nothing that’s too unusual. But Dr. Renfro is a man and, well, we all know why I wasn’t comfortable being that intimate with men.

  No.

  I think I need to say that plainly.

  Because of John, I felt uncomfortable being naked in front of men. Because my brain tried to tell me that the man seeing me nude might do something that I didn’t want him to do. Maybe he’d run his hands all over my body, grab my junk, try to put his fingers or any number of other things inside of me, make me perform sexual favors—any number of fucked up things a person shouldn’t be forced to do. Intellectually and logically, I knew Dr. Renfro wasn’t going to do anything wrong to me—he’d been my doctor long enough for me to know that. But the brain’s a funny thing. Mental illness is a funny thing. We got through the physical examination without me losing my cool, though.

  And then we sat down in his office together like we always did, both of us fully clothed, facing each other. That was a lot more comfortable.

  “How are you doing today, Tom?” He asked as he settled into his seat. “How was group?”

  “I’m good.” I replied, settling into my chair as well. “Group was—well it was kind of fucking hard, but it was good.”

  Dr. Renfro laughed but was pleased with my honesty. He still didn’t use a pen and notepad when talking to me. He just talked. Gave me his full attention. I appreciated that.

  “Do you want to tell me what you talked about in group?” He asked. “Or anything anybody else talked about in group that bothered you or made you feel anxious or depressed? Or do you want to talk about how you feel in general? Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  I shrugged. “If you had asked me five months ago, I could probably tell you a million things that were on my mind. Right now, I don’t know what I think about a lot of things.”

  “Are you confused?” He frowned. “Foggy?”

  “No. My medication is fine, don’t worry.” I rolled my eyes with a smile.

  He chuckled.

  “I just…I guess because I felt so much of everything and thought about everything so much before—my brain’s just tired and I want to let things just be as they are, ya’ know?”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Besides, when did overanalyzing anything get me anywhere?” I shrugged.

  Another chuckle.

  “How’s work going?”

  “Okay.” I replied. “I mean, yeah, I work at a piddly ass convenience store and by now I should be well into my sophomore year of college, but, at least I’m not in a mental hospital. At least I’m willing to try to not be in a mental hospital. I need more time before I think about college.”

  “That’s reasonable to me.” He said. “How does your mom feel about the convenience store and college?”

  “I think she’s leaning into it now. I mean, as well as she can. I think she’s starting to accept that her son has problems and they aren’t solved overnight with a few pills and a little bit of talking. So…she’s trying. She’s always been trying, obviously, but I think she kind of really gets it now. She’s not treating me like she thinks I want to be unwell.”

  “Do you feel well?”

  I really had to think about that one.

  “I think so, yeah.” I replied. “Sometimes my mind still tries to convince me of things that aren’t real or that I should do something destructive, but it’s not as bad as it used to be.”

  “What does your mind tell you when that happens?”

  “More often than not it tells me that I don’t care if I’m alive.” I said, not bothering to wait before telling the truth. “And that scares me. It’s always scared me. I tried to tell myself that that isn’t the same as being suicidal or having suicidal ideations…but, it’s pretty fucking close, right?”

  “Dangerously close.”

  “I don’t want to die, Dr. Renfro.” I swallowed, suddenly overwhelmed by the thought of not being alive. “I really do want to be alive. I want you to believe that I really really want to be alive. Really fucking bad.”

  He smiled. “I believe you, Tom. Do you believe you?”

  “Yessir.” I nodded. “I really fucking believe it. I don’t want to go back to feeling nothing to survive. I’d rather feel everything than make myself feel nothing. That shit will weigh you down.”

  He just listened.

  “I wanted to know…”

  I stopped myself, chewing at my lip suddenly.

  “What, Tom?”

  “I wanted to know if you think if I’ll ever not have depression and anxiety?” I spat out the question like a machine gun, staccato and harried. “Do you think that’s…do you think I’ll always have depression and anxiety?”

  “Do you feel anxious and/or depressed right now?”

  I thought about that.

  “No.”

  “What do you feel?”

  I had to think about that, too.

  “I just…I feel alive, I guess.”

  He smiled.

  “So…will the depression and anxiety come back?”

  “Maybe.” He relented, a small frown on his face. “The hardest part of my job, Tom, is that I can’t give guarantees. I can’t tell someone with a mental illness that they’re cured because a lot of mental illnesses are biological or chemical—they’re lifelong conditions. They can be managed and even controlled sometimes, but often, they can’t be cured. Depression and anxiety are two that a lot of people struggle with and are often lifelong conditions.”

  I nodded.

  “But I think with your CBT and medication routine, yours can be managed nicely.” He said. “At a level that you can find acceptable.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you feel okay about that?”

  “I think I have to, right?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Truths only or you don’t answer, remember?”

  I looked down and gave a single nod.

  “Right now, yeah, I think I feel okay about that.” I said softly. “But I was okay with the lies and feeling nothing for a long time before that blew up in my face, too, so I don’t know if I’ll feel okay about managing my anxiety and depression in a week or months or years. That scares me.”

  “Then why don’t we focus on today? How does it make you feel today, in this moment that your anxiety and depression are managed?”

  “Grateful.” I responded immediately.

  “Good.”

  “I think so, yeah.” I smiled.

  “What else would you like to talk about today, Tom?”

  Inhaling deeply through my nose, I let my eyes meet Dr. Renfro’s.

  “If I told you a truth,” I asked, “could it be just between you and me? Even if it involves a crime? I mean, just between us for now?”

  “It depends, Tom.” He said. “Did you commit a crime?”

  “No.”

  “Who did?”

  “A dead person.”

  “Is the person they committed the crime against still alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that person you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it can stay between us.” He nodded. “For now.”

  I want to tell you a truth.

  A really big truth.

  I’m ready to tell the truth. The real truth. Not the truth that Dally and I made up, but the truth as it happened.

  Tw
o boys met on a bus.

  It was early morning.

  The sun was brilliant and bright.

  The weather was perfect.

  You know, how all “once upon a times” are.

  They were both from the same city, though they had never met. But they went to different Pre-K’s, elementary schools, and middle schools, so they wouldn’t have met until they both went to the same high school when they started their freshman year. However, both boys ended up going to the same summer camp. That’s how they ended up on the same bus.

  One boy’s name was Tom and one boy’s name was Dally. Neither was an exceptional boy. Neither got incredibly good grades, excelled at sports, ran with the most popular kids, nor did they have some artistic or creative talent that made them stand out. But they were good kids. Friendly. Affable. Quick to make a joke. Loved their lives. One was poor and one was upper-middle class. Both were dark haired and skinny, still sporting their gawky, gangly, awkward early-teen bodies.

  That’s probably why two boys became quick friends. Other than socio-economic status, they were pretty similar in their averageness. Well, that and they both thought that camp was for little kids, not the young men that they obviously were becoming. Camp was for kids in fifth, sixth, seventh grade. Not eighth graders who were in the summer before their high school careers began.

  When they locked eyes on the bus, the first two kids to board, one sitting at the back of the bus and the other seated right behind the driver, they knew they were looking at a kindred spirit. So, a boy who had been seated behind a bus driver went to the back of the bus and asked if he could sit with a boy at the back of the bus. Of course, his request was granted with an outstretched hand and a firm shake.

  Then they both laughed.

  They both knew how ridiculous it was, this serious greeting between two fourteen-year-olds. As if they were about to conduct or had just finished a business meeting.

  We all know the rest of that part of the story. Dally and Tom spent the first two weeks of summer camp becoming the best of friends. But that’s not true. They were never the best of friends. They were two boys who shared a trauma and that forced them to be best friends. So they could survive. Honestly, they probably wouldn’t have really cared for each other away from camp if things had been different.