The water streams down my head, waking me up. I scrub the bar of soap down my arms and stop at one of my tattoos while I rinse. The Jack Daniel’s logo was one of the first pieces I added to my arm before I expanded my sleeve. People think I got it because it’s my choice of poison, and I let them believe that because there’s no sense in tearing them down my path, but this tattoo is anything but my love for the drink.
I bow my head to allow the cascading water to hit the back of my scalp and neck. I always swore I wouldn’t be like him and I got this tattoo as a reminder that no matter where life took me, I was a different man than my father.
Witnessing the beating and abuse was brutal, but watching him laugh darkly after my mom was crammed in a corner crying and pleading for him to stop stirred something inside of me. A type of hatred stemmed from a dark place of revenge. At that moment in life, I looked into my father’s eyes and vowed to never be like him. And I’m not. But the taste of Jack on my lips is welcoming after a long night on stage.
The older I got, the more I wanted to smash his face against the glass door and let the glass seep into his skin. When I was old enough and strong enough, I grabbed him from a beating one night, the alcohol having slowed his senses, and I rammed him against the wall. My mother screamed, terrified, but I knocked him down and punched him until the blood from my knuckles was mixed with his own.
With a final kick to his ribs I told him to leave and never come back for her or me. If he did, I would make sure he wouldn’t see the light of day. His fear was evident and gave away that he never thought his own son would do this to him. I was tired of watching it happen.
I brace myself against the shower wall with a shaky hand, preventing from falling completely on the cold tile. Why the fuck am I thinking about this now?
It’s Mikayla. Seeing her try to fight off a ghost in her sleep reminded me so much of my mom. I did everything possible to keep her safe until we were sure he wouldn’t come back. He never did. We found out he had died in a car accident a few years ago and could finally breathe freely.
And you continue to drink.
My thoughts are betraying me. I’m trying to prove there is nothing wrong with me and they tell me there is. I’m not my father even if I enjoy a drink or three.
Fuck. Maybe it’s time to face the past. What haunts me the most is that he never once touched me. He never once laid a hand on me. Just her. He got high off of destroying her life.
I turn off the water and dry my body. It’s time to start the day, and with the new therapies they’re introducing in the center I’ll be busy today.
They’re adding holistic modalities that will help me release emotions and detox the body. I’m not a lab rat that you need to experiment on.
The first thing they’re having for us is meditation before breakfast. We can’t even eat before this shindig goes down. It’s probably less shindig and more Oprah meets the cast of Girl, Interrupted. Okay, maybe the people here aren’t like that cast, but I can imagine everyone meditating when they look half dazed already.
Meditation was interesting to say the least. The guide said it takes practice to fully let go and clear the mind to allow total relaxation, but some people shared some intense stories after we finished. I didn’t get that deep into it. One eye closed and the other open, I noticed Mikayla didn’t close her eyes at all. She was always hyperaware of everyone else and the guide. After seeing what that nightmare did to her, I can imagine how intense that could be for her.
I can’t get her off my mind. She continues to stay there, making me think memories I had brushed off and grow a protective layer that I’ve never felt for someone else besides family. I don’t even know her.
I observe the people here and some of them seem to be making progress. Not me. I’m still as insecure and fearful of the night. Sometimes, when I’m in the bathroom alone, I sense something behind me. Often times, I close my eyes without turning around and pray for it to disappear. The memories, it must be. Other times, I turn around. Always, my skin is chilled and heart racing. Never is there anyone behind me.
I change into my pajamas, taking a careful look at the skin on my hip covered perfectly by my underwear. It won’t be noticeable if a nurse comes and checks my skin.
I grab my sketchbook and look it over. One edge is dull with faint pink but my painting is intact. A drug addict will always find a way to get more substance. A cutter will always find a way to release more pain.
All it took was one nightmare and a therapy session where I was told to speak to whomever I was angry at even if they weren’t in the room. I didn’t speak, but I did cut that night. Sketch paper is thicker than regular paper and after being locked up in here with no source of release, I gladly welcomed it for a little while.
The slight sting on my hip as I shift on the bed feeds something deep within me. It also reminds me that I’m alive. And that one day I’ll be out of here and free. Free to continue fearing the ghost that destroyed me. I hate being stuck in here, but even I can admit it’s the safest I’ve felt in years.
I continue working on my drawing. Sam was right. This helps calm me. Her one-month deal to give art therapy a try has turned into me getting lost in my drawings. I get lost in the way my pencil moves against the paper and think of nothing. I’m starting to believe there is reason behind the art therapist’s theories.
I shade in part of the horse’s face, impressed with my own talent. I’ve never even ridden a horse or been up close to one, but they seem gentle. It was the face of a gentle creature that crossed behind my closed eyes for a brief second during the meditation. It was white and gallant, and he was protective. Usually my drawings are portraits, all different faces with the same emotions.
Eventually sleep wins, and I crawl under the blankets with the hope of a restful night.
“Hey, Red,” Tyler says as he sits at my table during breakfast. “What did you think of the meditation today?” He’s chatty. Not only is he chatty, he’s different. He almost seems like a normal person, not the angry man who first walked in here.
I shrug and eat my oatmeal. “Yeah, you don’t seem to be into it.”
“I’m not.” We eat in silence until I can’t hold it in anymore. “You know, you don’t seem like the kind of guy that would easily oblige to therapy.”
“Don’t let appearances fool you.”
“Don’t I know about that,” I mumble.
“What?” He looks me square in the eyes.
“That I know about appearances fooling people.”
“Yeah, me too.” He surprises me. “It sucks, huh?”
“You have no idea.” I slump back and push my plate away.
“I know we got off on the wrong foot, but you have a support system here. Maybe you wanna use it?” I nod and stand up to put my plate where it goes.
I walk out into the garden and sit on the same bench I saw Tyler on not so long ago. Everyone seems to be making progress but me. I continue to focus on that, comparing my lack of healing to those around me. I can’t shake it off.
“You know, my mom killed herself when I was younger.” Sam sits next to me.
I jolt. “What?” Where the hell did she come from?
“Yeah. She was depressed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She’s sitting on the edge of the bench staring straight ahead. That must be the reason she decided to work in the mental health field. “Her father used to abuse her.” I cough up and she gives me a sympathetic look. “I found out later. She wrote it on a note that I found. It’s taken me years to forgive his ghost. Actually, I haven’t fully forgiven him, yet,” she confides.
“Why are you telling me this?”
She ignores my question. “I’ve been a mess most of my life.” She offers a sad smile. “Between that reality that slapped me in the face—you know, because our family was perfect and my grandfather was the hero for everyone—and my own experiences lived, I was sentenced to a life of misery. I lived most o
f it that way.”
I want to ask her more. I want to know how she changed, but I don’t dare to. I always knew there was something about her that was different. Maybe it’s because she would understand my story, even if it’s not directly like hers.
“I was lucky.” Her voice cracks for a brief second. “Mikayla, as angry and hesitant as you are, if help is offered, think about accepting it. It can make a difference between having a fate like my mother’s or a hopeful one.”
“My mother was murdered,” I spit out.
“That must have been difficult,” she says softly.
“I witnessed it.”
“And you couldn’t tell the authorities because you were afraid?”
I nod my head. “Who would believe a teenager?”
“I would.” She offers the opening for me to say more. Sam is one I would trust wholeheartedly. Not because of what she shared, but because ever since I met her here she has been real. Real is something lacking in our society.
“Thanks.” Maybe another day.
She stands and turns to me, “Ho’oponopono.” Before I can ask her what she said, she takes off.
I lay back on the bench as the sun hits my face. It’s warming and comforting to be outside of that sterile building. Outside I can taste a small sense of false freedom. I’m starting to get immune to the day-in and day-out of this place. That could be a cause for failure in my attempt to actually heal in this place. Then I go back to the word Sam said. Something about pono. I’ll have to ask her.
I go back inside, despite preferring the warmth outside and prepare for my therapy session. I dread these moments. The ones right before I am examined and thoroughly, emotionally observed. They want to crack the code, and I’m sure they have their theories, but I ultimately hold the key. I’m not ready to revisit it all.
I walk out of the yoga class and I admit to myself that it’s growing on me. It’s giving me something else besides sitting idly waiting for time to pass. I never had things like this that I enjoyed. I was always too busy hiding from the world in hopes that I would become invisible. Now that I’m in a safe place, they’re offering me a bit of something I had missed out on. I wonder how many others in here missed out on living because they were too busy hiding from their demons.
Except Tyler. Clearly, he had the opportunity to live out his dreams, but he took it way too rough with the drinking. I bet his childhood was filled with sports teams and school activities. He’s probably the one here who had the more normal life. Yet, he keeps getting sent back in.
“Hey, Red.” I see him lift his chin my way as he does his workout. I give him a tight smile. He’s been nicer, so I’m trying to be pleasant.
I head back to my room and grab my sketchbook after I’ve showered. The scars on my hips are almost healed. Paper isn’t as strong a weapon as a blade. In the garden, I draw before supper, ignoring the itch on my hip and focusing on the movements of the pencil.
The nightmares have dissipated a bit. The night isn’t so scary these days. I start on a fresh page, the pencil moving. I never plan what I will draw, I just do. I let my hand guide the pencil and see what comes of it. I never knew I had this skill, but I like it. Sam was right. I have a feeling she’s always right.
It’s a beautiful day and while we aren’t alone anywhere in this place, since there are always people around making sure we’re safe—from ourselves—it feels better to sit outside. It gives me things to look at and observe besides the constant memories I wish I had forgotten.
They said something about blocked memories the other day, but that doesn’t apply to me. I remember every detail. I remember every assault. I also remember every time I gave in and surrendered. What would have happened had I fought back? Would I be dead now, too? How can you stand up for yourself when that very act would harm you more? Would death be better than living with the aftershocks of the storm?
I take a deep breath and focus on my drawing. It’s a self-portrait with part of my face shaded in. That’s the part of me that holds my secrets, hidden in the shadows, too ashamed to admit them to anyone. I look up when one of the nurses calls me to go in for supper, and I close my sketchbook to go to the dining room.
I look around the room after grabbing my food, and I feel like high school all over again. Watching and seeing what table you’re going to sit at. I usually opt for alone, but when I spot Tyler eating I go sit with him. Maybe because his company has become a part of my daily meals.
“Mind if I sit?” I ask and shift from one foot to another.
“Nope,” he responds and looks back down at his plate quickly. I sit silently and eat. I don’t have a lot of experience with peers, but this feels weird.
“So, um, did you have a good work out?”
“Yup.” So maybe that whole talk about using the help I’m offered and being chatty was a momentary slip of his guard. I leave the conversation as is, never one to press further when I know it’s not wanted, and eat my food. Tyler stands up and leaves the table, for the first time being the first one to go. And I don’t know why, but for some reason it bothers me.
Knowing that it’s still too early to sleep has me crawling out of my skin. The desperation I feel to get out of here is clawing at me. This locked up feeling would drive anyone crazy. It will make you mad beyond your wildest dreams. And although I know that at home I’d be idle if not working, knowing I have no choice in here frustrates me.
I look around and walk into the gym. It’s empty and I can sit and finish my drawing. I stop when I walk in, but before I turn to leave I hear him call me.
“Sorry,” I say sheepishly.
“It’s okay. You can stay . . .” Tyler says when I turn to leave.
“Don’t want to cram your space.”
“It’s not like you make much noise. Actually, it’ll be like I’m alone.”
Never have I wanted to feel less invisible than in this moment. Being around me is like being alone. I make no impact. I sit silently in a corner across the gym to give Tyler the privacy he was clearly seeking when he came here.
I continue to work on my portrait, the features of the shaded half barely visible. I stare at the drawing for a long while, unfamiliar eyes looking back at me. Who am I? My mother and I didn’t have the relationship where we would sit together and talk. I don’t know where I came from. A rootless person, stuck in place. The irony isn’t lost in me.
I close my eyes as I lean my head back. I grip my sketchbook as memories flash. Determined to not let them win, I attempt to overcome them. Let them pass. It’s my mind recalling. This is who I am. I need to be able to accept that. I squeeze my eyes more tightly, holding captive the tears wanting to escape. I will not let this affect me anymore.
“Mikayla.” I hear a soft whisper, but I don’t open my eyes. “Red?” I feel him sit next to me. I need to be able to overcome this. Opening my eyes now means I let the past win.
“My dad used to beat my mom.” My eyes snap open and I look at Tyler.
“What?” Day of confessions.
“Sorry. I don’t know why I said it. I thought maybe it would help.” He looks away for a second, and I realize Tyler also has a story he hides.
“It’s okay.” I’m not sure what else to say.
“You looked so . . . Like you were in pain.”
“I was.”
“I shouldn’t have said that.” Although he says this out loud, I don’t think it’s directed at me. He finally looks at me. “Life’s a bitch.”
“Tell me about it.” I relax a little, noticing the edges of my sketchbook wrinkled.
“That’s good.” He nods towards my drawing. I shrug.
“You ever take art class?”
“No. I had never drawn anything until I came here.”
“Damn . . .” He leans back into the wall and sits there in silence, his knees bent towards his chest as his arms rest leisurely over them. His posture screams cool, but his expression shows anything but.
I wait awkwardly f
or him to move or say something else. The clock in the gym ticks as the silence stretches. Each second that passes, my anxiety builds. I haven’t been alone with anyone since I left Georgia. Not that I think Tyler will do anything to me—at least not anymore—but the silence is deafening. Maybe I should go to my room. I’m in no way ready to sleep, but that will be better than sitting here with my freak out and his confession lingering between us.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have told you about my parents. Hell, I know I shouldn’t have, but I thought it could help. I don’t know why. I don’t know your story.” He pauses and looks down at his hands. “Fuck, this place is playing with my head.” He makes to stand, and I place my hand on his forearm.
“Thank you.” I look straight into his eyes, something I never feel comfortable doing. He gives me a tight smile, and I know he’s done for the night. I’m left alone in the gym as I watch him go. This is what I was seeking when I first came down here, but the loneliness is now frightening. I run out and straight to my room. I’m safe here.
My original assumption of Tyler was wrong. Looks are deceiving. Or people are great at covering up what they don’t want to show. I close my sketchbook and place it under my mattress. I almost got through an entire memory without fully losing it. If I can overcome the memories, I can become emotionally stronger. At least, I think so. I’ll have to ask Sam about that word she told me when she comes back to work. Also, how much longer I have here. I lost count of the days.
Tyler plops down next to me right before meditation begins. “Red,” he says flatly.
“Tyler,” I reply just as evenly.
I keep my eyes open as the guide begins speaking. He takes us through a relaxation of our body, from our feet to the crown of our head. I listen intently as he mentions a forest and describes the vibrant colors. I imagine it, but I’m fully aware of each moment. I look around carefully and see everyone else with their eyes closed, some look like they’re sleeping and others seem to be far away from this room. When my head turns to my right, I see Tyler peeking at me from one eye.
Twisted in You Page 5