Let It Be

by Cheryl McIntyre

  “That’s why I know it’s my fault. I pushed him when he already had so much to deal with.”

  Hope grips my chin, lifting it until I’m looking at her. She shakes her head stiffly. “No. Imagine you’re holding a fifty-pound weight in one had—that represents mental illness. And in the other, you’re holding another fifty-pound weight—that represents all of the secrets. You’re a strong man, but the longer you hold those weights up, the heavier they’re going to feel until they finally give out.

  “He could have gone to the wedding with you. Or you could have stayed home. Ian probably would have still tried to hurt himself. It just would have come at a different time.

  “What you need to understand is that everyone has arguments. Everyone says things they don’t mean to their significant other. But then most couples either split up or make up. Most people don’t try to kill themselves. Ian did this because he has an illness. Not because you argued. He’s. Sick. If he had cancer, would you think he developed it because you were mad?”

  I shake my head. I understand what she’s saying—it’s just hard to believe.

  “You can’t blame yourself. That’s one of the most important things to remember because I can guarantee Ian doesn’t blame you. And if he sees you beating yourself up, that’s going to make him and you both feel horrible.”

  “Okay,” I whisper. That I can understand. I don’t want to make him feel worse in any way. I’ll fake it if I have to.

  “Okay?”

  I nod. “Okay.”

  She sighs. “It’ll take some time. I know it’s not easy to change an impression once you’ve thought it and believed it. It’s probably a good idea for you to talk to a counselor. This has affected you too.”

  I just nod again, not wanting to get into this. Ian is the one who matters most right now. Once he’s taken care of, then I’ll worry about me.

  “What about when he comes home.” I pause, meeting her gaze. “I heard you and am prepared that he might not come home, but talk to me as if he is. What should I anticipate?”

  Hope blows out a breath, lifting her hair away from her face. “Don’t bombard him, but don’t leave him alone, either. Most failed suicide attempts don’t try a second time. Some do, though, so you need to make sure you don’t have anything in your apartment that will make another attempt easy. If he wants to do it that bad, he’ll find a way no matter what, but you want to make it as hard for him as you can.”

  Talking to Hope, of all people, is almost surreal. She suffered years of self-harm, so when she tells me Ian will find a way if he truly wants to, I believe her.

  “Get rid of the sharp objects—razors, knives, things like that. Make sure there aren’t any medications other than the ones the doctors prescribed. Even over the counter medications like Tylenol. Often they can be worse than prescribed medicine. And you stay in charge of those. Don’t let him. Not yet.

  “He’s probably going to have a lot of self-guilt, anger, embarrassment. Don’t push him to talk about it—that’s what the doctors are for. He might never want to talk to you about this, but listen if he decides he does.

  “Other than that, make sure he’s eating healthy. Vitamins are a good idea. Encourage him to get exercise because it gives you natural endorphins and endorphins make you feel good. You guys could work out together. And most of all, just be there for him, but don’t neglect yourself. You’re no good to him if you’re in a bad place.”

  “That’s a lot to remember,” I say. “My brain is on overload. I’m kind of afraid I’ll forget something. I’m also terrified I’ll fuck something up.”

  “I’ll send you info and links to help you remember. You’ll be fine. I promise. Just do what you’re best at.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Love him.”

  Sixteen

  Ian

  They said twenty-four hours, but it’s been forty-two since I last saw Guy. In that time, I’ve been moved to the mental ward. Just the thought makes me feel worthless.

  I’ve spoken to four nurses and three different doctors. I’ve answered more questions in the past two days than I have in most of my life. But I’ve answered them openly and honestly, even when they repeated the same questions five different ways.

  Because I want to get better.

  Because I want to live.

  Because I want a good life.

  Because I want to live that good life with Guy.

  The doctors placed me on three separate medications. I wonder if each doctor prescribed me something or if they all got together and discussed it. Either way, I now have an array of pills to swallow every day.

  I don’t know if they’re helping. The doctors said it will take time for my body to adjust and see a difference. So far they just make me kind of sleepy.

  I hope they work. I hope they can make me better.

  The nurse—Gina, a woman old enough to be my grandmother—said I could see my parents today. No friends yet, but if my visit goes well today, I might be allowed more visitors tomorrow. And it’s possible I’ll be allowed to go home at the end of the week.

  I’m not holding my breath. I’m scared to see my parents. I’m afraid they’ll ask me why I did this to myself. I’m afraid I won’t be able to answer and I’ll hurt them even more.

  I don’t want to hurt anyone.

  My wrists are healing well, Gina tells me. I just take her word for it. I’ve refused to look at the wounds when she changes my bandages. But when my arms are wrapped, they’re all I can stare at.

  I’ve been thinking, because that’s all there really is to do here, and I’ve come to the conclusion that having the scars will be good. Little reminders so I never try this again. I hope I never actually need a reminder, but they’ll be there just in case.

  The door opens and my mom peers around the corner. Her dark hair—the same color as mine—is smoothed into a ponytail perfectly, but she has dark rings around her puffy eyes.

  She’s lost sleep.

  She’s been crying.

  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why.

  I’m sorry.

  I’m so sorry.

  “Hi, honey,” she says softly. “How are you feeling?”

  How am I feeling?

  Disgusting.

  Worthless.

  Guilty.

  Stupid.

  Pathetic.

  “Okay. How are you?”

  She smiles weakly. “I’m good.”

  My dad follows her in and they stand at the foot of my bed, staring at me. I look at the wall.

  “The doctor said you’re doing well,” Dad murmurs. He doesn’t know the right words to say right now, I can tell. That’s all right, though, because neither do I. There’s so much, too much I should be telling them. Things I’ve wanted to say for a long time—needed to say—but the timing always seemed wrong.

  And then I know exactly what to say.

  “I’m gay.” It drops from my lips like I’ve said it a hundred times before.

  “I’m depressed.” It’s like I’ve opened a faucet—everything begins pouring out. “But I’m not depressed because I’m gay. And I’m not depressed because of anything you have or haven’t done. It’s just an illness. I hope you can accept both of these things about me.”

  I don’t care how old a person is, a son wants his parents to love and accept all parts of him.

  My parents both looked surprised, but not nearly as surprised as I thought they’d be. I guess the depression part didn’t come as much of a shock at this point.

  “Okay,” Mom says. “I love you no matter what.”

  “Same…same for me,” Dad husks. “I love you.”

  “Is this how you really feel? Or are you only taking this so well because I just tried to kill myself?”

  I don’t know where this is coming from. I guess after facing death—facing what is most people’s worst fear, I grew some balls.

  “We really feel this way,” Mom says gently. “Does the fact that
we almost lost you play a part in our acceptance? Maybe. But I know I love you more than anything or anyone on this planet. I’ll take you whatever way you come.”

  I feel like I’m going to puke. Part of me wants to bask in her admission. Another part wants to go back sixty seconds and take back everything I’ve said. When you live one way for so long, change is difficult.

  But I know I need change because what I was doing before obviously wasn’t working for me.

  “Guy isn’t my roommate, he’s my boyfriend, and I’m in love with him.”

  That’s everything. They know the worst and the best of me now.

  Seventeen

  Guy

  I stare at the door, my eyes wandering over each line in the grain. I’ve probably been standing here for close to fifteen minutes. All I have to do is reach out and grab the handle, but I can’t make myself do it.

  On the other side of the door is my future.

  It’s been three days since Ian opened his eyes. Three days since I looked at his face or heard his voice.

  Too long. Much too long.

  But I’m scared of where our relationship is left at this point. I know I need to go inside and find out, but I’m not ready.

  The door swings open and I have to step back quickly to avoid being hit. Ian’s parents step into the hall and Mrs. Miccoli stops short when she notices me. I shove my hands into my pockets and offer her a polite nod. Before I can comprehend what’s happening, she wraps her arms around me, locking my arms to my sides.

  “Thank you.” She releases me, but cups her palm to my cheek. “For saving my son. And for loving him.”

  If I had the slightest clue as to how to respond, I still wouldn’t be able to.

  She takes her husband’s hand, and I watch them walk down the hall, completely speechless.

  They know.

  I don’t know how they know, but they clearly do.

  The door is standing open, beckoning me into Ian’s room, so I finally force myself to go inside. I freeze, my memory warring with my eyes. The last time I saw him, he was pale and haggard looking.

  The man sitting in the bed is the man I fell in love with eleven months ago. Blue eyes bright and alert, rosy complexion, and that smile.

  God, I missed that smile.

  He looks good. He looks so Goddamn good. I almost start sobbing for the twentieth time this week, but this time from nothing but happiness.

  “Hi,” he breathes.

  I nearly stumble to his bed and throw my arms around his neck. His hands fist my shirt at my sides as he takes a shaky breath against my cheek.

  “I’m so glad you’re okay.” I want to say alive—I’m so happy he’s alive—but I don’t want to remind him of death or how close he came to it, though I’m sure he’s thoroughly aware. That’s not something he’s going to ever forget.

  “Me too,” he utters.

  We hold onto one another, but the silence that settles over us is heavy and uncomfortable. Not the easy, relaxed quiet I’m used to with him.

  All the questions are sitting there unasked and all the answers unspoken. Hope told me not to push, so I don’t push. Instead, I take a step back so I can look at his face, and I say, “Do you remember when you tried to teach me how to ice skate?” It’s totally random, but for some reason it popped into my head. He bursts out laughing and I suddenly feel choked with so many emotions.

  “You fell on your ass more times than I could count,” he pants. “It was the funniest shit I’ve ever witnessed.”

  “And I dragged you down with me at least half the time.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t mind you dragging me down with you.” He grows quiet again, a far away look clouding his eyes.

  “It’s one of my favorite days,” I continue. “I don’t think I ever laughed so hard. I was thinking, this year, we should try it again. You never know, I might actually stay on my feet this time—as long as you hold my hand.”

  “I’ll always hold your hand,” he murmurs.

  That’s the best sentence I’ve ever heard. I repeat it in my head because it’s the polar opposite of how our relationship works. We don’t hold hands. Not in public.

  “You want to watch TV with me?” He wiggles the remote, smiling invitingly.

  “Absolutely.” I reach back, pulling the chair over. Ian pats the bed as he moves over, making room for me.

  “Lay in bed with me?”

  Okay, maybe that’s the best sentence I’ve ever heard. I hesitate—people will see us. He smiles, patting the bed once again.

  “I don’t give a shit anymore. I want you to lay with me.”

  I climb into his bed slowly, giving him time to change his mind. He doesn’t. Instead, he rests his head on my chest. My hands fold around him instinctively, as if they remember exactly where they belong. And then we stare at the television. I can’t tell you what’s on or what it’s about. My thoughts are consumed with Ian. The way he feels against me, so warm and solid. The sound of his breaths, low and steady. And the fact that he’s allowing me to hold him in this public place. It feels like I’m the one that’s been gone, and now I’m back, exactly where I belong.

  I’m home. I’m whole.

  I’m happy.

  Hours pass this way. The only time we move is when we absolutely have to—but never when a nurse comes in. I know I’ll have to leave soon when visiting hours are over, so I try to soak up as much of this as possible now.

  I want to ask when he’ll be able to come home, but I don’t want to push. I opt to keep my mouth busy by placing kisses into his hair. His grip on me tightens and he looks up, his eyes meeting mine. And as if reading my thoughts, he says, “I get to come home Friday.”

  Best. Sentence. Ever.

  My eyes close and I inhale deeply. “I can’t wait. I’ve missed you so much.”

  “I love you,” he whispers for the first time.

  My eyes pop open, instantly filling with moisture. That…that is definitely the very best sentence ever uttered.

  “I love you too. So much.”

  Eighteen

  Ian

  Guy places another overly cooked pancake on my plate. It’s the least burnt out of the batch. I think he might actually be getting better. I douse it with butter and syrup, trying to mask the taste.

  It doesn’t work.

  I eat it anyway.

  In the weeks since I came home from the hospital, things have been really good. Guy and I have started a routine. Healthy breakfast, vitamins, meds, a thirty-minute workout, some “quiet time” as Guy calls it, or as I like to say: My cuddles. This is followed by therapy if we have it that day—twice a week for me and once a week for Guy. Then he goes his way and I go mine until after work.

  I know it won’t always be this way—this perfect and peaceful—but I can feel myself growing stronger, both mentally and physically. I’ll always suffer from anxiety and depression, but the medication, the therapists, and the love and support from my loved ones helps keep me balanced. So when the bad days come, I’ll be prepared. And I remind myself every day that the good will always outweigh the bad.

  And with my Guy, I know we have many, many years to pile on the good.

  “I want to try a different workout today,” I say around a mouthful of food.

  “Okay,” Guy says. He smiles at me over his shoulder and I’m flooded with love and desire for this man.

  I don’t know how I ever got so lucky, but I seriously hit the jackpot with this one.

  I set my fork down, walk around the island to where Guy’s busy at the stove, and I flip the burner off. He shoots me a quizzical look.

  “Well that was rude. I was using that to burn you pancakes.”

  I shake my head, chuckling. “Come with me. I want to explain the workout.”

  One light brown eyebrow arches, but he takes my hand, following closely behind me. I tow him into the bedroom where I quickly remove my shirt. My insides are twisting because this is something we haven’t done since I’ve
come home. He’s hugged me and held me. He’s kissed me. But he hasn’t made love to me, as if he’s afraid I’ll break.

  “I need you,” I murmur.

  Guy’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he watches me strip down. But he doesn’t move, frozen solid a foot away.

  “Please make love to me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Am I sure? Maybe he needs some of my crazy meds.

  “Hell yes, I’m sure.”

  I lie back on the bed, watching him. And then I touch myself.

  “I’ve heard a healthy sex life is good for people suffering from depression,” Guy says with a smirk.

  “You’ve heard that?” I ask, loving the way that brow pops up once again. His tongue slides over his bottom lip, nearly sending me right over the edge.

  He nods. “Orgasms release endorphins. Have you ever been unhappy when you’ve come?”

  “Can’t say that I have. But we should test the theory.”

  “I’m sold.” Guy undresses in lightning speed and crawls on top of me. I love this. Us naked, pressed skin to skin.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asks softly. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “I want you inside of me.” I want it so badly I can barely breathe.

  He reaches over and opens the side table drawer, removing a condom. Just like our first time together, I take the condom out of his hand and roll it on him. I pump him several times then, making his eyes flutter. He leans into my grasp, enjoying my touch. It makes me feel good that I can do this, that I can give him pleasure.

  “I can’t wait anymore,” I whisper.

  “Me neither.” He kisses me, his tongue wet and warm against mine. I reach between us and guide him into me. The first few seconds are a mixture of pleasure and pain. And then it’s all gratification.

  He moves against me slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. I realize in this very instance that the best thing I ever did was fail. If I had succeeded at taking my life, I’d miss out on precious moments like these.