“I had a nightmare. I’ll talk when I’m ready, but I’m not talking to the fucking therapist here. She’s a bitch.” Sam stares at me with a warning look.
“She wants to help. She’s not half bad, if you give her a chance.”
“What the hell are you doing here, Sam? You’re normal. You don’t judge those of us here like they do. What gives?”
“Isn’t it nice to have someone on your side, if you think that? Don’t try turning the conversation on me. I want to make sure you’re okay. Your reaction to Tyler isn’t only from waking up frightened. If you gave someone a chance, you’d see it isn’t so bad to have someone help you. I already told you. When you’re ready to talk, you can come to me. I have a feeling I can help. Get some rest.” Just like that, she leaves me alone in my room.
She expects me to get rest. Ha!
Shit. That nightmare was intense. It felt too real, and it reminds me that although I hate this place, I’m safe here.
I need a release. I need to feel something else besides the disgust and torture I dreamt up. If only it was a dream. How sad is it to know that my dream stems from reality? Do others exist like me? How do they cope? Or do they get away with death before someone finds them and tries to save them thinking they’ve done them a favor?
I begin to sketch with my pencil since I don’t have my preferred form of release. Anything to keep me from falling back asleep. I keep the lead moving along the paper. I fight sleep.
Before I know it, the sun is starting to stream in through my window and I prepare to watch a new day bloom. Another day of therapy. Another day of purgatory. But it damn well beats another day in hell.
I’m so tired of feeling so much hatred. I’m tired of fighting and losing. I want this over with. I’m tired of remembering. I want to forget.
I avoid Tyler for most of the day, keeping my eyes cast down and my hair shielding me from others. Maybe this will keep me secluded and camouflaged. This defense mechanism didn’t help much when I was younger, nothing could make me invisible enough back then, but I’m embarrassed about last night and afraid. I don’t like having attention on me and letting my guard down in my sleep means Tyler may have heard what I was screaming.
Back in my room after therapy, I grab my sketch from last night to keep on adding to it. I close my eyes as years of unshed tears build behind my eyelids. Taking in deep breaths, I will myself to get control of my emotions. This place is doing a number on me. I slowly blink my eyes open and a stray tear falls onto the sketch, wetting the young face staring up at me.
My bed dips next to me, and I look over to find Sam staring at the drawing. “That’s gorgeous, Mikayla. You were a beautiful little girl.”
I nod silently, the lump in my throat still threatening to push me over the edge. It has been years since I remembered myself like the smiling little girl drawn on the paper. Times were so different then. “Thanks,” I manage to get out before closing my mouth again.
“It’s okay. You can let out how you’re feeling. No one is going to judge you. Everyone here wants to help in his or her own way. It’s important you stop thinking that they are spending every second judging you. That’s not how it works.”
I nod again. Seeing this reminder of who I once was makes me yearn to be that person again, the person that lived without hatred towards the world. I was never social or surrounded by people, but I like to believe I was once happy. Maybe this drawing is a memory buried deep within my subconscious, sneaking out to tell me there’s still hope.
Maybe Sam is right. Maybe people are not here to judge me if I release the bitterness stitched in my soul. Is it possible I’m judging myself? They are reflecting my own judgments because somewhere within I feel I’m to blame for what happened.
Whoa. Shaking my head from these thoughts I look up at Sam. She’s patiently waiting for me to sort through my emotions as if she knew exactly what I was thinking.
“I know,” I whisper. That was a crap load of reflection in the matter of a few seconds.
“I actually came in to share some new information with you. We’re adding alternative therapies to our center. I know you’re against all of this, but I think this will help . . . If you open yourself up to healing.”
“Okay.” I have no idea what she means by alternative therapy and it sounds like something they needed to come up with because regular therapy is shit. Why else would you need an alternative?
“Why don’t you go to the gym? There’s a yoga class starting soon. It can help calm you down from last night and relax a bit.”
“Yoga?”
“Mikayla, it is something that will help you. It will occupy your thoughts and you won’t sit here staring at a sketch of an eight-year-old version of yourself and wondering when life got so fucked up,” Sam says firmly.
“That’s not . . . I won’t . . . Fuck!” I get up and look around my room. “What do I need to wear? I swear, if they start with some mumbo jumbo talk I’m walking out of the class.”
“Deal.” She smiles with victory. “Here. Wear this.” She hands me a pair of long leggings and a t-shirt she had next to her. She had this planned. I squint my eyes at her and grab the clothes, making my way to the bathroom. Her low chuckle follows me and I roll my eyes. Sam is determined, and I guess that is what makes her so good at her job.
She’s the subtle person lingering around making sure everyone is getting what he or she needs. She isn’t in your face about it. Well, she was in my face right now, but she is mostly caring for others from afar. She isn’t a therapist you sit and have a one on one with, nor is she the person diagnosing you. She is always around with an open heart, ready to help and support you. The one you get to trust because you build a different kind of relationship. And for this reason, I am going to take that yoga class, because she has made sure I am not feeling judged or hating myself since the first day here, patiently waiting for me to come around.
“Relax and enjoy it,” she says as I come out of the bathroom.
“Bend forward at the hips and reach for your toes, holding the pose. Come up to jack knife and back down to a deep forward bend.” The yoga instructor has been calling out names I’ve never heard of, and I struggle to keep up, but I’m doing my best.
I see new faces in the class. People I hadn’t noticed before and maybe it’s that my previous realization has opened my eyes a bit, to observe the world around me with a little less judgment. I still keep to myself, taking a place at the back of the room.
“Bring your arms up over your head reaching for the sky.” She continues to guide us and I do as she says. I’ve never been one to exercise, always staying isolated and thinking up new ways to keep myself protected from roaming hands and alcohol-laced breath.
Sore and sweaty, I stand up from the last pose where we laid on our backs and were supposed to close our eyes for some kind of meditation. No way in hell was I going to close my eyes and not be aware of my surrounding.
“Hey, you’re new to the class.” The instructor walks towards me as I’m rolling my mat.
“Um . . . Yeah. Sam suggested I come.” I find myself stumbling for an excuse.
“That’s great. I’m Carrie. Yoga is a great coping skill. You don’t have to worry about others telling you to talk. You go within yourself and embrace your body and soul.”
“Yeah.” Not sure I embraced my body, but I liked that no one prodded me for answers or bombarded me with questions or demands.
“I hope to see you in tomorrow’s class.” Carrie smiles at me.
“I’m not flexible,” I blurt out.
“That’s okay. Flexibility comes with practice and patience, like many things in life.” Philosophical talk.
I nod and thank her before walking away, keeping some of my southern manners.
I head towards the exit of the gym and catch a glimpse of Tyler. I instantly look down and focus on the ground, sneaking a sideways glance in his direction. He’s sweaty and grunting as he lifts the weights in his hands.
His green eyes are focused and shielded with some kind of guard. He is definitely intimidating and no one can blame me for not wanting to be near him. His muscles bulge in a not overly big way, but solid and threatening enough. His tattoos flex with his skin, making them look like they’re moving along to the rhythm of his workout.
This vision of him is such a contradiction to the one I saw of him on his bed playing that melancholy tune on his guitar. I can’t help but wonder who Tyler is.
Who are you?
At that moment, he sees me and I scurry out of the gym, still humiliated about last night. Second time he catches me looking at him.
I can’t get that last thought out of my mind as I left the gym after my first yoga class. Who are you? Where did that come from and why? I was wondering who Tyler is, not me. I know who I am—a broken down girl from Georgia who stayed quiet for far too long because appearances meant everything. Hide the truth. Cover it up like it never happened. I was raised to perfectly conceal any reality that wasn’t convenient to be shown to the world. That is what I do, what I’ve always done, because like it or not my life was sketched that way.
So I won’t dig much deeper about who I am. I was the girl who had her life stolen from her because some sick bastard wasn’t happy with what he had. I had to pretend that wasn’t my life because the fucking peaches would be appalled and accuse me of being the sick one.
Momma got what she asked for. I wouldn’t say what she deserved, but she turned a blind eye and that eventually caught up with her. Both eyes open and staring at me but no longer seeing life.
Fuck, Mikayla! Why am I thinking about all of this now? It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done and she ain’t coming back.
I go down to dinner, shaking those thoughts from my mind.
It’s been some days since my nightmare, and I’ve been keeping to myself. I have gone to more yoga classes and have found that it does help me to stop replaying memories from the past. Apparently, it’s making me less cynical, too.
“Hey, Red. Mind if I sit?” I hear his hoarse voice and carefully look up with raised eyebrows. “Is that a yes or a no?”
“Whatever,” I respond hoping I sound indifferent. What does he want now?
His body drops into the chair opposite me, and he mixes the cheese on the top of his chili until it melts into his meal. Trying my best to ignore him, I take a bite of the chili and go back to my blank mind.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to scare you the other night. Only wanted to make sure you were okay.” Tyler lifts the awkward silence with an awkward apology.
“It’s okay,” I mumble.
“Clearly it’s not, but I didn’t want you to think I’d hurt you.”
“’Kay.”
“You don’t need to be so standoffish. If you don’t believe me, say it.” His defensive tone makes me look up at him and I see his guard. I didn’t say anything rude. What’s wrong with saying “okay”? Besides, he is the one that came into my room at night.
“Whatever. I wanted to apologize so you wouldn’t take it the wrong way. I’m not here to mess around. Nor am I some type of perv.” He looks at me pointedly. What’s with this guy?
“It’s okay. Really. I had a nightmare and woke up surprised.”
“You were more than surprised, but okay.” He stands up and throws his food away leaving me alone to ponder why he would want to apologize and what it is he thinks he knows about me.
I throw away the remains of my dinner and go outside. The crisp spring evening is welcoming. This place is located on vast land in the Tennessee countryside, and I don’t take advantage of the outdoor space as much as I could. I take a walk, still caught up in Tyler’s apology. He did seem legitimately worried when he was in my room, but I was too torn up from my nightmare to care about anything else except what I had relived. And who knows what he thinks of me now that he may have heard what I was saying.
I don’t need a pity party.
In yoga yesterday, Carrie talked about love. She said something about opening your heart and feeling love for yourself and for the people who were in your life or continue to be in it.
How am I supposed to feel love for the people in my life? I have no one in my life except for those who have been a part of it. How am I supposed to love my mother when she permitted the abuse to go on? And that asshole? No way in hell I can or will love him. I can’t even muster compassion for that douche bag. Some people don’t deserve it. Apparently, I am one of them.
I don’t know what I did to earn this life. Was I so terrible that this shitty life is all that was left for me? Such a burden that I couldn’t even receive unconditional love from my own mother? I think the most helpful thing she told me was to run as soon as she took her last breath. Don’t you think I knew that, mother? I feel tears building at the overload of emotions that have lately taken over. I was always alone in the world.
I have so many emotions hidden deep inside a safe; the code to open it lost somewhere in the vast space of the universe. Things I haven’t forgiven myself for and hadn’t even realized I blamed myself for. I have held on to anger at others not realizing I was angry with myself, too. Could I have done something to stop his actions? Was I as much to blame as my mother for hiding it, or were we both too scared to truly accept a different fate?
The tears threaten to spill and I hate it. I don’t like to cry. Crying makes me feel vulnerable, and I’ve already lived so many years feeling that way. I’m no longer that scared girl. I pretend I’m not, but hiding still means I’m scared, right? Have my choices to cope with reality been the most courageous? Or are all of these therapists right? Is the only way of fully moving forward to face the issue straight on, instead of running from it with unhealthy coping mechanisms? Is the only real path to safety looking within and facing my demons in order to completely destroy them? Was there ever a war won by hiding inside the bushes?
My arms itch for the sting. They itch for the pain and pleasure caused by the blade.
I turn the corner by the gardens that house herbs and vegetables they use to cook with here and find a shadow sitting on a bench.
I wonder if Tyler knows what love is.
The soft crunching of earth isn’t part of the music in my head. I focus back on the words I’m writing and regain focus until I feel the eyes on me growing more intense. You’d think in a place that has enough acres to spare I could find a place completely to myself to get lost in my music and not think about anything else. I want to write music in peace.
I look up and see Mikayla watching me with curiosity. She couldn’t even accept my apology earlier, despite her saying she did. I wanted her to know I wasn’t going to hurt her. I may be a prick, but I’d never do anything to harm a woman.
“What’s your story, Red?” Her eyes widen as if noticing me for the first time when she was the one standing there staring.
She shrugs. “I don’t have one.”
“Everyone has a story.” What’s with this woman’s aloof responses?
“Not everyone. Some people’s story was taken from them, and they’re left with traces of someone else’s story embedded in them.”
“That’s deep, Red.”
“My name isn’t Red.”
I chuckle and say, “I know. Mikayla, right?”
“Yeah. Exactly. So what’s the deal with Red?”
“You always paint with that color and when I first saw you, you had red paint on your face. I guess I associated you with the color.”
“Okay.” Mikayla turns to leave, but her step falters before turning back to look at me.
“What’s your story?” Her eyes look down like she’s afraid of me and I frown.
“Already told you. Super star country artist that is apparently a drunk and needs an intervention.” I roll my eyes.
“Maybe it’s true. It’s not the first time you’re here.”
“What the fuck do you know?” I spit angrily. She flinches backwards and takes a step back.
> “You’re right. I know nothing. Wanted to tell you I accept your apology from earlier.” The look in her eyes makes me kinda feel bad, but who is she to accuse me of being an alcoholic? She runs her mouth a lot about the kind of person I am without even knowing me. Then I think back to what I saw in her room. She was obviously fighting someone off in her sleep, and I feel for her.
“I’d never hurt a woman,” I spit out randomly.
“Um, okay.” She takes another step back. Is she trying to make a run for it? Because she’s not very good at hiding it.
“And you know,” I call out, “for someone who hates being judged, that comment was a bit judgmental. You don’t know me any more than I know you.”
She halts and stares at me for a few seconds before saying, “Fuck. You’re right. Sorry.” This is a different girl than the one that lost it in group therapy and bashed me.
I look back down at my journal, continuing the song I was working on before she interrupted me. I get why she’s the way she is, if my suspicions are correct, but that doesn’t excuse her judgments.
I think about my mom. She asked me a while ago, when I was visiting her between gigs, to lessen my alcohol intake. I got pissed at her, too. I get where she was coming from, but I don’t want to be labeled something I’m not. I shake my head, convincing myself I don’t have a problem and I’m misunderstood. I can quit the bottle if I want.
That’s what you said the last time you were here.
I finish scribbling a few more words. It’s a shame I’ll never use this song. Songs about pain and torture don’t fit my persona. Apparently, my record label knows me better than I know myself. I’m starting to lose the control over my music and that frustrates me. I can’t do anything while I’m locked up in here, so I need to be on my best behavior and hope they let me out soon, despite what Joe said. Maybe if I’m extra nice they’ll release me before my three months are up.
Twisted in You Page 4