How We Love

by Michael Ryan Webb

  "Well, what happened?" Wes finally asked, practically shouting.

  I took a long drink and a deep breath before finally saying, "It just wasn't working. I don't know. Maybe it can still work out. Maybe this separation will give us both time to get to a place where we're better for each other. But for now I just need space."

  "Oh, Adam. I'm so sorry," Amy said. Her phone buzzed. "Oh, great. It's Jason. He tried to change the oil in his car without me and can't figure out what to do. Mind if I go call him?"

  "Actually, I better get going anyway," I lied, not wanting to think about the fact that she still had a happy marriage. "Still have a lot of unpacking to do."

  "Okay, well you call me if you need anything," she said. "Wes, I feel like I'm going to regret asking, but can you please make sure he gets home safely?"

  "Obviously," Wes replied, rolling his eyes.

  I swallowed what was left of my drink and slowly fumbled my way back out of the booth. In the time I'd been back from the bar, all of those drinks had hit me pretty hard. Wes helped me out to his car and spoke dramatically about how hard single life was as he drove me back to my apartment. I couldn't keep up with his speech. So I just nodded and leaned against the window.

  After what felt like hours, we finally arrived at my apartment. I insisted I could get upstairs by myself, but stumbled by the third step. Wes rushed to steady me and helped me up the stairs.

  "You wanna come in for another drink?" I asked, my words already slurring as I struggled to open the door.

  "I'm like 1000% sure you've already had enough. Here, sit down. I'll get you some water," he said, guiding me to the couch.

  I slowly drank some of the water he brought me, but still spilled some on both of us.

  "Shit, I'll be right back. Make yourself at home, if you can find anything," I said, stumbling away. I clumsily changed my clothes and grabbed a towel and an extra t-shirt for Wes.

  But when I got back to the living room, he was completely naked, dropping his clothes into the dryer.

  "What the hell are you doing?" I shouted.

  "When I stood up, the water ran down my pants, duh. I wasn't gonna sit around wet," he replied.

  "Well, here! Cover up," I shouted, throwing the towel and shirt to him and trying not to look below his neckline. "I'll go grab some sweatpants or something."

  Suddenly feeling much more sober, I quickly rummaged through boxes and found a pair of Mark's pajamas that I had taken by mistake. I dropped to the floor and started crying.

  "Do you want me to put on pants or not?" Wes called, coming into the room. "Oh, hey, what's wrong?"

  "The first pants I found are Mark's," I sobbed.

  "Oh, no, Adam. Don't cry, come here," he said, dropping to the floor next to me and wrapping his arms around me. He hugged me while I cried until it was out of my system.

  When I had finally calmed down, I realized that for the first time in almost a year, someone was taking care of me. I wasn't trying to take care of him or anticipate his needs. He was there for me. That realization coupled with the overindulgence from the evening led me to do something so enormously stupid that I may never live down the embarrassment.

  I looked up at him, he smiled, and I kissed him. I fully expected him to punch me in the face, but he surprised me by kissing me back. I was very briefly caught up in an adrenaline rush. Then he spoke.

  "God, this is perfect. We both needed to get laid," he said.

  Suddenly I remembered all of the reasons why Wes was not someone I would normally consider doing this with. It wasn't that he wasn't attractive. He was, in a very basic-handsome-young-white-man way. His blonde hair was styled in a trendy cut and he was in good physical shape. He was generally nice to look at. But he was also one of the most irritating people I'd ever met. He was self-centered beyond reason, loud, and careless. Of course, by the next morning, I'd think of myself as a much worse person than that.

  Plus, I had literally been separated from my husband for one day. It was much too soon. But I was very drunk, and he was young and attractive, grating personality be damned. I grabbed him and kissed him again.

  "Oh my god. I've always secretly thought you were so hot," he said, taking a breath. "Not like... hot-hot, but like...teacher-hot."

  "Hey, do me a favor if we're gonna do this? Don't talk," I said.

  The rest was a blur of more drinks and things that I'd only done with Mark for the last two decades. I almost sobered up when I had to explain to Wes that my last name was only Diaz by marriage because he asked me to, "say something sexy in Spanish," but a couple of shots of whiskey got me right back into it. When it was over, I felt both relieved and guilty. But I was too far gone to process the guilt, so I decided to avoid trying to process it until the next day.

  "Okay, I take it back. You are definitely more than teacher-hot," Wes said, heading for the living room.

  "Thanks, I guess," I replied. "Where are you going?"

  "Gotta get my clothes so I can get out of here," he called back. When he re-entered the bedroom, putting his clothes on, he continued, "If I go home now, this stays a friends with benefits thing. If I spend the night, it's gonna be weird in the morning."

  "Oh, yeah, totally," I said, pretending to understand the now apparently much more complicated rules of sex and dating.

  "So, I'll see you at school tomorrow, then. Great work, by the way," he said, extending his hand for a high-five.

  I awkwardly pressed my hand against his, and then he was gone. When I heard his car pull away downstairs and was sure he was gone, I rolled over and shouted into my pillow, one searing thought repeating in my head: What the hell have I done?

  Chapter Two | Mark

  1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10

  I counted my fingers over and over, trying to calm myself down. The alternative was to let in the bad thoughts that I so terribly wanted to get out of my mind. I stopped counting to try to peak out the window to see if Adam had pulled away from the house yet and was immediately greeted with the mental image of myself falling on the sidewalk and a rock stabbing me in the eye. Back to counting.

  1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10

  I slowly made my way through the house to the cabinet where my medications were stored. I carefully opened the door to the cabinet, being sure to keep my face away from the corners. But my mind was overcome with the image of the corner of the door hitting me in the eye and leaving splinters embedded. I dropped to the cold, tile floor and rubbed my eye seven times, reassuring myself that it was fine. My hands were shaking too much to count my fingers, so I resorted to counting the stripes on the shower curtain to bring myself back to reality.

  1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8

  When I could finally bear to face the cabinet again, I quickly snatched my medications and darted out of the room. As I hurried into the family room past the sofa, my foot brushed the tassel of a throw blanket hanging from the side, and my mind was filled with images of snakes surrounding me and biting at my feet. I scurried into a nearby recliner and scratched at my foot, trying to convince myself that the images in my head weren't real.

  After I calmed down, I tried to come up with something to distract myself. I considered knitting, an old hobby I hadn't tried in a while, and instantly pictured myself slipping and shoving one of the needles into my eye. Back to the rubbing.

  1,2,3,4,5,6,7

  I walked carefully upstairs to retrieve my phone and back to the recliner, counting my steps along the way to keep my mind occupied.

  1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12,13,14,15,16,17,18,19,20,21,22....

  I almost dialed Adam's number, like a reflex. I reminded myself that that was no longer an option and scrolled through my contacts for other ideas. Work and my marriage had consumed so much of my life in the last several years that I hadn't committed much time to making friends.

  Our neighbors were friendly enough, but like most small com
munities, tended to err on the side of gossip. There was a couple we had become friends with, Amy and Jason. But that friendship was born of Amy and Adam working together, so I wasn't sure I should reach out to them.

  I came to the number of Kate, an old friend from law school and decided to call and catch up with her, hoping a conversation would distract me long enough for my medication to kick in. I pushed the call button and listened to the ringing.

  You know she never actually liked you, the voice in my head blared. She only pretended to be your friend because you wouldn't stop talking to her in class.

  "Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up," I whispered to myself.

  "Hi. You've reached the voicemail of Kate Sanchez. If this is related to a legal matter, please call my office. If this is a personal call, please leave a message and I will get back to you as promptly as possible. Thank you," the machine chirped.

  I told you, the voice gloated. You could dial every number on that phone and no one is going to pick up because no one wants to talk to you. You're a burden. You always have been. And now that you ruined your career and your marriage, no one has to pretend otherwise anymore.

  I reminded myself that the voice was my voice – that I could get control of it back if I tried hard enough. I made my way to the kitchen, gathered supplies to make cookies, and turned on the small TV in the corner of the room. Baking and Judge Judy reruns were two of my favorite pastimes. Surely both at the same time would ease my mind long enough for my medication to calm me down.

  My father had always loved to cook. We very seldom ate out when I was a child for the simple reason that he loved to be in the kitchen. Some of my clearest, fondest memories of him are ones where he let me help him with whatever he was cooking. I never quite picked up his skills, but I was much better at baking. The precision required for it clicked better in my mind, I suppose, so I did that to feel close to him after he died. Still, I kept a stack of his old recipes in my own recipe box, hoping someday I'd work up the nerve to try them myself.

  I began mixing ingredients, weighing each meticulously, and carefully combining them, finally focused enough on something to block out any disturbing mental images. I slid the prepared cookie dough into the oven just in time.

  The weighted haze of the medication set in and I had to sit down. I hated the way it made me feel, like I was sedated and just drifting through life. But it was better than the alternative.

  I turned my attention to the TV and tried to engage myself in a game I liked to play to try to wake myself up a bit. I watched the ridiculous guests on Judge Judy try to argue their sides and imagined what kind of case I would build if I were hired to represent either of them. The show went to a commercial break and I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. I almost dozed off, but a commercial caught my attention.

  It advertised a web therapy site, and featured a few glowing reviews of the "licensed local professionals." Not long before, I would have laughed at the idea of something like that. But I had pretty much hit rock bottom, and saw nothing else to lose from giving it a shot.

  I waited until the cookies were finished and set them out to cool while I retreated to my office. I sat in the oversized chair that Adam bought me for our first wedding anniversary because he thought sitting in my old one felt, "like sitting in something Wednesday Addams designed to torture regular people."

  I sunk down into the chair and picked up a nearby photo of Adam. He had been smiling at me as I took the picture. Behind his dark brown hair the sunset was creating a halo effect. His blue eyes were shining as bright as ever. That picture was at one time a source of comfort, but it made me feel sad with him gone.

  I turned the photo down and allowed myself to get lost in memories of our life together. I thought back to the big moments – the first time we met, the first night we spent in the house, the proposal, the wedding – each one now just an echo of a love that had eroded under pressure, possibly beyond repair.

  I signed up for the website and was surprised to find that I could speak with a therapist in just a few minutes. While I waited, I returned to my thoughts. I tried to think of good times, happy memories that would remind me that I had something to fight for.

  I thought about the night I first said, "I love you," to Adam. I hadn't planned it. We'd gone hiking earlier in the day and I kept looking over at him as he talked to me and felt completely and totally enamored with the way his eyes somehow seemed to shine brighter than the golden sun beaming down on us.

  That night, we picked up tacos from his favorite truck, and I felt giddy watching how happily he talked to the people there and remembered exactly what I liked. We went back to his place and had just started eating when a storm rolled in and knocked the power out. He didn't have a flashlight, but he did have a candle we'd bought the week before at a renaissance fair.

  He lit the candle and pulled me up and started to lead me in dancing. When I said we needed music, he started humming one of my favorite songs. I laid my head on his shoulder and sighed, "I love you." He said it back, his beautiful eyes radiating in the candlelight; and everything else grew from that moment.

  I got emotional and lost control. My mind was flooded with images of Adam getting into a car accident on his way to his new apartment.

  And it would be all your fault, the voice in my head chimed in.

  1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10....

  I counted my fingers and took deep breaths. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my ear drums. I felt like I might pass out. Then the computer chimed and I snapped out of it.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Diaz," a chipper voice said through the speakers.

  I looked up to find a woman smiling at me on the screen. She was young, probably in her mid-twenties. She appeared very well put-together. Her suit was neatly pressed and her long brown hair was pulled into a tight bun. But her smile was warm and her eyes kind.

  "Um, hello," I muttered.

  "Hi. My name is Dr. Rodriguez. You can call me Hannah if you'd like. Whatever you're most comfortable with," she said.

  "Thanks," I said, barely audible. I was suddenly very nervous. Had I jumped into this prematurely? Was I actually ready for this stranger to ask me personal questions?

  No turning back now, I thought to myself.

  "Why don’t you start by telling me a little about yourself?" she asked. "Let's start with age, occupation, marital status, the basics."

  Marital status? Ouch. Ditto occupation.

  "Okay-so-I-um- I'm 39 years old," I started shakily. "I-um- technically am unemployed right now, but I normally am a defense attorney. And, well, as of a couple of hours ago, I am separated from my husband."

  "I'm sorry to hear that," she said, seemingly genuine. "Is that what prompted you to contact us today?"

  "Yes and no – sort of," I said.

  "Let's start with the yes," she said, smiling sympathetically. "How are you feeling about the separation? I take it this wasn't your decision?"

  "Not exactly," I replied. "I mean, I agreed that he should go, if he wanted; and when it became clear that he really did want to, I didn't try to stop him."

  "Why not?" she asked pointedly.

  "It didn't seem like I had a right to argue. He didn't want to be with me anymore, and I couldn't really blame him," I answered.

  "I'm guessing that brings us to the "no" part of why you came to us," she said. "Can you tell me why you felt that way?"

  "I suppose I felt like I'd become something of a burden to him," I said after a long pause. "I-um-I have been struggling with OCD and major depression for the last year or so."

  "I see," she said thoughtfully. "Have you been seeing anyone for treatment and medication before today?"

  "Well, I was. I haven't in a while," I admitted. "For the past few months, I haven't really been able to leave my home. I just-" I paused. I could hear my own voice wavering. "I don't even feel safe here. The thought of setting foot in the real world where I have no control over a
nything is too terrifying."

  "I understand," she said. She paused for a moment and smiled. "I have some good news for you, Mr. Diaz. We can fix this. I absolutely believe that. OCD is a nasty beast, but it is manageable. We need to speak more in depth of course, and probably change your medication up a bit, but I believe we can get you back on your feet. I can't promise that all of your symptoms will disappear completely, or that all of the problems that this disease has caused for you will suddenly repair themselves. But I can promise to be here for you, and help you learn to take back control of your life. Can you trust me to help you?"

  I took a deep breath. I had been to a few different psychiatrists over the last year, and hadn't gotten anywhere with any of them. To say that I was hesitant to trust another one would be a massive understatement. But she seemed sincerely interested in helping and I was in no position to turn that down. So I finally said, "Yes, I think so."

  "Great," she said, beaming."Then I'd like to ask you some more questions now, if that's okay."

  "Of course," I replied.

  "Have you been taking your medication regularly?" she asked.

  "I have, and it helps for a bit; but it also makes me feel too heavily sedated to function much," I explained.

  "Okay. Well, we definitely have options on that front," she said. "I'm going to write you a prescription for something new that hopefully won't give you that drowsy feeling. We'll try that for a couple of weeks and see where that gets us. In the meantime, I'd like to try to unpack what's happening to you and what may have triggered it in this later stage of your life as opposed to early adulthood. You said you've only been experiencing these symptoms for about a year. Did anything traumatic happen around the time that your symptoms started? Perhaps marital issues?"

  I thought back and tried to discern when the symptoms actually started. "I suppose it started shortly after my dad died," I said. "We were also trying to adopt at the time and it fell through. My symptoms started out innocently enough. I suddenly became very particular about where things went, but plenty of people are particular. So I didn't think anything of it."