Page 84 of This I Promise You
“I already said I feel stupid.” I’m tired of talking about it. I just want to drop it. “And he doesn’t deserve to be stuck with me. I’m fucked up.”
“Language,” Dad warns. He’s not a stickler for language unless it’s the big ones, but I should have known better.
“Sorry.” I lower my head. Boone comes over and rears up, resting his paws on my knee. I rub his head and neck.
“Don’t think like that, bud,” he continues. “You’re not…messed up. We all have problems. But that’s what relationships are. You see past them to the person they are inside, to the person you need in your life. You’re not your disease. You deserve to love andbeloved, too, bud.”
“I know.” I don’t look up. I know I should answer Paul’s texts and calls, but I can’t get myself to do it. Because he’s proven what I knew all along. I don’t deserve him.
Paul
I’m Not Having Fun
“…and I just…don’t remember what happened afterwards. I just kinda blacked out or something.” I finish telling Dr. Orleen about everything that happened the past week. It took up most of my time with her, but I tried not to leave anything out. It’s been over forty-eight hours since I said the words that have haunted me in my time away from Easton. And relaying them all back to the doc? Pure torture. I fucked up so badly. “I’m worried there’s something wrong with me. Huxley has bipolar. Do…” I look down at my hands. “Do you think I do too?”
“I do not. Though I cannot talk about Huxley’s condition, I can say that I am very familiar with Bipolar Type 2 Disorder and I do not think you fit into this box.” She likes to talk about her damn boxes, that’s for fucking sure. “However, I do believe you had a fit of rage or a rage blackout in which you experienced an extreme, almost primitive anger, followed by unconsciousness of the psyche. Some might try to classify it as Borderline Personality Disorder or even Intermittent Explosive Disorder. Neither of which do I think you have.
“Listen, Paul.” She places her notebook and pen aside and takes off her glasses to lean forward in her chair. “You have been through a lot in your life and you have experienced more than most would in a lifetime within only a couple of decades of your short existence. And even still, you have been through so much these past few years, months, weeks. You met a boy, fell in love, and then felt lied to and betrayed. You arenotbroken, Paul. Even if you did have any of the previously mentioned disorders, you arenotbroken. Knowledge is power, and knowing and learning these things about yourself only aid in, as you’ve said, ‘evolving into your best self.’ I can see how much your actions are affecting you. Though we should not excuse your behavior, I think patience is key here. Patience and understanding, action and acceptance.”
“Yeah.” I nod vigorously. “Yeah, you’re right. I just…feel so much shame for what I’ve done. What I’ve said. Even for the things that have happened to me that are out of my control. I feel like I’m goinginsaneand I don’t know how to stop it, let alone fucking control it.”
I pause a moment while I fidget with my fingernails in my lap. I don’t know how to put into words how I feel. I love words, but they escape me right now.
“I-I just… I’ve always felt so out of control, ya know, with my emotions… But I suppressed them. For years. Now that they’re out for a stroll, they’re running fucking rampant and I-I don’t know what thehellI’m doing.” I throw my head into my hands and double over. I’m not going to cry. I’m not. But this is all so hard, too much. “It’s moments like these I wish I was a smoker or a drinker. Dealing with reality without a coping mechanism like this isn’t fun. I’m not having fun,” I mutter into my hands, then sit up. “Sorry. I’m being dramatic.”
“Not dramatic, passionate,” Dr. Orleen clarifies, leaning back.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Our time is almost up, but before you go I have three bits of homework for you. Firstly, I want you to do some research, Paul. I feel it will be important for you to learn and understand what angry means. Start with the basics and work your way up from there. There are many facets to anger in and of itself, but there are many ways to overcome and release it. In sessions to come we will explore those ways. For now, research.”
She leans forward, her notepad abandoned.
“Secondly, I want you to think about making amends. You have expressed your love for Easton and Huxley, and I do believe, based on your analysis, they feel the same. As troubled as your past is, your future is a blank canvas waiting for your masterful artistry to grace it. You’ve expressed many times how important your relationship with your siblings is to you. Might I make a suggestion?”
I think I already know where this is going, but I don’t say anything. I just nod.
“Go see your brother, Jace. No, I don’t mean call or text or even Facetime. I mean go to Kansas City and speak with him face-to-face. It is my belief that such an act would bring you the results you’ve expressed that you desire.
“And lastly, write. Not journal entries, butwords. Write about all your thoughts and feelings in as much detail as you can muster. Use the anxiety log we’ve spoken about in sessions past. Let your words flow from you however they may, however they see fit. Let yourself be a vessel to these words, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll find they have a place together with your canvas. Think you can do those three things?”
I nod. “Yes. I’ll try my best, yes.”
Easton
Just a Dream
He texted. Again.
PAUL: i can’t even begin to explain to you the remorse i feel for my words and my actions. i have some work to do to make it up to you, easton. and i want to. i don’t know how, but i want to. i will
PAUL: i saw dr. orleen yesterday. i’m trying, easton. i really am trying
But I can’t. I just can’t get myself to respond. Instead I switch my read receipts off, take a deep breath, and turn my phone off.
The music is too loud in here. I know they’re going for cool old bar by the lake vibe, but we’re not at the beach, or a lake really. It’s more a pond in the middle of University City across from campus. It’s not that bad though. There’s even a sidewalk tracing the edge of the pond that they try to call a boardwalk. The smell of beer mixes with the fish odor hanging in the air, but I keep hearing Paul’s angry words repeating in my head.
Maybe we’d be better off alone.
