Therapy (26 page)

“Umm, no I don’t usually work on Sunday nights. Why?”

“Well, I know you told me you never cook and that it’s because you never learned. I thought maybe you could come over to my place and we could cook dinner together. I can show you how to make something. We can eat and hang out. Maybe watch a flick or something. If you’re down for it, that is.”

A giggle escapes me as I look up at him.

He’s serious!

“You’re funny. Do you want to burn your house down? I promise you that I can’t learn to cook anything in an evening. I can’t even make eggs, Kingsley!”

A hair falls into my eyes and he immediately reaches out, brushing it aside. I feel the warmth of his touch and a shiver runs down the length of my body. I force the feeling away and grin at him, sweeping my mussed-up hair back.

“My hair is a mess,” I say, feeling a little shy all of a sudden.

“I love it. It looks great even when it’s all jacked-up.”

“Thank you, I think.” We laugh together for a moment. We’ve been having a lot of moments like this lately: easy, carefree, comfortable.

“Okay, so it’s a date! Come over tomorrow night around six o’clock and we’ll make something simple. It’s hard to screw up spaghetti. I promise, you’ll be fine. I’ll text you my address.”

I haven’t ever been to his house. He’s never invited me over. He’s been sort of elusive when it comes to his personal life away from the gym or my apartment.

“Sounds good. I’ll see you then. If I can walk, that is,” I say wryly. “Was it really necessary to do so many box jumps this morning? Good God, you’re such an ass! You know how much I hate those things.”

He laughs while he starts the bike back up, revving the engine a couple of times. He holds his hand to his ear as if he’s trying to hear me. “Sorry, can’t hear you. Hope you had a good workout. I know how much you looove box jumps!” Then he smiles that damned sexy-ass grin and drives off.

He’s so bad! But I have to admit, I think I like his bad.

“They say monsters live under beds. They're wrong because our mind is where monsters truly reside.”

—Kathryn Perez

STANDING IN FRONT of the door, I stare at the knob and try to regulate my breathing. Do I turn it and go in, or do I walk away again for the hundredth time?

I haven’t been in this room since Lily died. It’s been too painful, so I’ve gone on with life as if nothing happened, pushing it all down and keeping it all in.

But this fucking girl is making me feel again and it scares the hell out of me!

I see myself in her eyes: a scared person trying to hold it all together, trying to be strong, to be brave, trying to fool the world around them. I look at her and I see strength wrapped up in pain. I want to tell her to let it go, to let it all out, but I don’t know if I’m wanting her to do that or wanting it for myself.

I don’t know what her story is, or where her pain stems from, but one thing I do know is that pain is pain, sadness is sadness, and hurt feels the same to all of us, no matter how different we may be. What I know best is that pain can push some people to the edge, but I hope Jessica isn’t in that place. I hope she never gets to that place. I know all too well what can happen when pain reaches the point of no return.

Slowly I reach out, turn the knob, and push the door open. The afternoon sun streams in, lighting the newly disturbed dust particles that bounce around the air in a flurry. I focus on them in a final last-ditch effort to delay the avalanche of emotions that are waiting to bury me. Finally, I look around, moving my eyes over each section of the room.

Her easel sits in the corner of the room near the window, and her old pink paint-splattered sweater—her favorite one that she said was so soft and warm—is still draped over her chair. It hangs there, waiting for her to slide it on again.

She never will.

Her oil paints are all lined up on her desk in perfect order. The paint brushes wait for her to hold them again.

She never will.

I walk over and run my fingers across her big oak desk. It’s cold to the touch, and even though my fingertips are callused, I can feel the subtle ridges of the wood beneath them. I close my eyes and can see her perfectly in my mind, sitting here mixing paints, happy, smiling, surrounded by, and wrapped up in, her art. Her smile was so bright, but it never did seem to reach her eyes. I know that now, but why couldn’t I see it then? Now I know the look of pain. But now, it’s too late.

If only I had known she was suffering...

If only I had known she was hurting so deeply...

I might have been able to save her.

Why couldn’t I see that even when she was here, she was already gone?

I pick up the sweater and bring it to my nose. I inhale, trying to capture any trace of her scent, but it’s disappeared. Just like her. I drop down into her chair, gripping the sweater in my fists, tears filling my eyes and plummeting down my face. Tears that have never been shed finally break free. I’ve never cried for her, but today I will. It’s time.

Time to face the loss.

Time to realize that my wife chose death over life because she felt she had no other choice.

Time to accept that she didn’t reach out to me.

Time to accept that I may never know why.

Time to stop ignoring her death.

Time to face the reality of suicide.

I think about her all the time, but I never think about her death. I haven’t been able to face it. Lily’s always on my mind, and my thoughts can’t move an inch without bumping into some part of her.

I cry for the life she lived.

I cry for the life she abandoned.

I cry for our child that was never born.

I cry for the woman that I loved and lost.

I finally mourn my Lily.

I’ve been lying to myself for so long that the lies became truth and the truth became a lie.

I look through my tears to the canvas in front of me and run my fingers across the half-finished piece. Just like her life it’s full of color, but at the same time so dark, only half-lived.

I slowly stand up and place her sweater back on the chair. I walk over to her desk, scanning the shuffled papers there. Pink lettering, peeking out from under a small stack of papers and envelopes, catches my eye. I reach down and move the papers aside, revealing an envelope with my name scrolled across it in curly, dark pink calligraphy. My heart skips a beat, and then begins hammering in my chest.

All this time, I’ve always felt so bitter that I had no real explanation, no final words, nothing but an empty house and a hollow heart. That’s why I started going to group therapy. I just wanted to understand depression, suicide, self-harm. I couldn’t understand how Lily could do this to herself. I thought that if I could listen to others who dealt with it, then maybe I could understand, have some clarity. But here I am, looking at a letter that may very well hold all of the answers to the questions I never asked when she was alive.

I pick up the envelope with trembling hands while fear of the unknown creeps around inside my mind. I shuffle through thoughts and worries, asking myself if I really want to know. Do I really want to see the last words she wrote to me? Can I handle the truth? More than that, can I handle her truth? I slowly open the envelope and pull out the letter.

K,

Words seem so insufficient, my love, but I know you, and I know you’ll never rest until you have an answer to this huge question mark that I have placed in front of you. I can’t begin to express how much I love you. First and foremost, please know that I never stopped loving you and you shouldn’t blame yourself for my death. I’ve fought a losing battle for too long. One that I’m not sure I could ever make you understand. Unless you live through depression, you can never fully grasp it. It consumes my days and haunts my nights. And I’m tired, Kingsley. So tired.

I know you’re asking yourself why I didn’t come to you and all I can tell you is that I feel guilt. Guilt for not being better for you, for us, for our unborn child. Finding out that we were pregnant was the breaking point for me. I can barely hold myself together, much less care for a child.

I became a master of disguise, wearing a mask for you and for our families; trying to pretend this poison wasn’t eating away at me. I cut myself during the day to ease my pain, to control my world, and I always made sure the lights were off when we were in bed. I did all I could to conceal my pain. The thought of hurting you was more painful than hurting myself. You’re a good man, K, and you took great care of me. Never doubt that. What’s broken inside of me can never be fixed. It’s deep and it’s dark. The nothingness that consumes me every day burns and it overwhelms me to the point where I can hardly bear another minute of it. This dark cloud looms above me incessantly. But I’m finally ready to embrace it—it’s become too much of a burden to shoulder any longer.

I know I smile for you and I know you’re confused by it. But I smile for the world because my smile is my protection. It hides my pain, it hides my sadness, and it hides my fear. My smile gives you solace, it gives you assurance that everything’s okay. It’s my daily gift to you because you deserve all of my smiles and none of my sorrow. This infection within has taken my body, taken my mind, but I promise it never took my heart.

My heart will forever be yours.

I wish so many things for you, K. Please don’t spend your days mourning me. Please don’t lose yourself because I couldn’t seem to find myself. Love again, laugh again, and create a family. You deserve all of those things that I stole from you. I spent so much time and energy trying to protect you from my pain and in the end, all I’m doing is hurting you more than anyone else ever could. I’m eternally sorry for that. I’m selfish and I know that. I’m a coward and a cheat. I’m cheating you out of the life you knew and I hate myself for it. I hope that one day you can learn to forgive me. Please, don’t allow the past to steal your future. Don’t allow my sickness to taint your future happiness. Just know that I’m no longer in pain, no longer scared, and no longer hurting. Live your life for you and never stop being the wonderful, quirky, confident, amazing man that I know you are. Live for the moment—I know you can have so many beautiful ones.

Close this chapter of your life and start a new one. Turn the page and write your own story because this life is your canvas, Kingsley. It always has been. Please, go live it...

~L

I read the letter once. Twice. Three times, but no matter how hard I try to put it all together, the words just won’t sink in fully. Anger and sorrow rip through me and I just want to hit something, break something; I want to hurt someone, something, anything! She had no right to make that decision for all of us. I’m so mad at her, at myself, at everything for this. I haven’t cried, I haven’t felt anger or pain since she died because I didn’t want to face it. This is why! I feel fucking helpless and the absolute anger and hatred that I’m feeling right now hurts so bad. I don’t want to hate her, I don’t want to be angry at her. She took my heart with her and I want it back, I want my Lily back! I look up at the clock and I realize I’ve been in here longer than I thought. Jessica is coming over for dinner and here I am—a complete fucking wreck. I need to pull it together. I fold up the letter slowly, willing my hands stop shaking as I do, and put it back into the envelope. I can’t look at it anymore, so I place it in her desk drawer. I leave the room and close the door, closing up the room that holds all of my anger and loss.

After a quick shower, I throw on a pair of jeans and my favorite necklace. I wear it always. Lily gave it to me, so I only take it off to shower. Even though I’m angry with her right now, I have to wear it. I clean up a bit and check my pantry to make sure I have everything for dinner; then I grab my phone and send Jess a quick text with my address. It’s only five o’clock, so I have about an hour before she’ll be here.

Why do I feel so nervous?

This is not high school. I’m not a teenage boy falling over himself because of a girl. It’s just dinner; no big deal.

But it is a big deal.

There hasn’t been a woman in this house since Lily died. I haven’t dated, and I haven’t even remotely thought about dating until I met Jessica.

I look around the house to make sure it’s all in order. Of course, it’s all nice and clean. Lily was a perfectionist and the house was always spotless. Since her death, I’ve sort of turned into a clean freak myself, wanting to keep things the way she would have wanted them.

I pick up my guitar and decide to play for a while to calm my nerves. Playing always seems to center me when I need to relax.