Fixer Upper

One… two … three.

The thoughts begin to slow down in my brain.

One … two … three.

I remove clammy palms from a tear streaked, puffy face.

One … two … three.

My breathing steadies as I take note of my surroundings. I remind myself that I am safe, I am healthy, I am alive. I sit up straight, take a deep, shaky breath, and put my pen down on the page.

December 27th, 2020

Trying to constantly survive yourself is like living in a house that is constantly falling apart. For the majority of my life, I’ve been holed up in the basement of this dilapidated structure, lightbulbs hanging out of their sockets, broken windows covered up with cardboard, and the water running an odd bronze color. 

But after everything that’s happened this past year, I’ve found a reason to slowly start doing some remodeling. It’s funny, how the worst things that happen to you are usually the things that give you a reason to live. Don’t get me wrong, it didn’t happen right away. It actually took a long time to see how much this traumatic moment in my life pushed me to grow, and be a better person. Only recently have I truly started looking in and loving all the parts of me that I have grown to hate. All of that loneliness and confusion has led me to trust in myself.

Unfortunately, I’m finding that you cannot go through life alone. It is simply not an option. Independence, while healthy in moderate doses, can easily spiral into emotional isolation.

The house shutters as the front door is swung open, and the voices of my roommates fill the space outside my door. I stare at the words I’ve just written. Would they want to know all that goes on inside this brain of mine? Could they handle the unpacking of decade old boxes from my attic? 

The voices subside as they each engage in their own post-work routines, and my hand flies back to the page with the lack of distraction.

Perhaps this is the next phase of my growth. I need to unlock the door, and let someone else into my home. And who better to do that with than the people who literally live in my non-metaphorical house? These are people I care about, and who care about me.

I’ve got this. 

I click the pen closed, and slowly shut my notebook. For a second, I sit in the silence, running my fingers across the muted green cover, tracing the golden words with my finger tips; 

Take Time To Grow 

After one more deep breath, I push away from my desk and slowly make my way to the door, stopping to take time to look over myself before I step out the room. I stare at myself through the dust and the stains, trying to see who I am in someone else’s eyes. The dim purple setting I have my lights set to glints off of my shiny face. The puffiness has subsided, but my eyes still hold that squinty, glossed look that gives me a zombie-like expression. 

The person in the mirror looks so alone. There is so much fear behind that blank expression. I try to force a smile on my face, but the expression reflected back to me looks pained. Tears begin to sting my eyes again, and I have to shut them and think back to what I’ve just written. I cannot do this alone. 

Finally, my hand finds its way to the handle, and without really processing what I’m doing, I’m knocking on my roommates door.

“Yea, gimme’ a sec,” his muffled voice pulls me out of my mini-trance, and the panic hits again. No one wants to come home from work to someone asking for help, I think, he’s not going to have the energy to listen to you. Why would you force that on someone else?

Before I can react, the door swings open, revealing a boy in the process of putting a shirt on. My mouth is moving before I even have time to think. 

“Wanna smoke?” The offer is not an uncommon one in this household, but not the one I necessarily wanted to make. 

“When do I not?” He replies with a grin, shutting the door behind him as he patters out of his room in plaid pj’s. I quickly grab my piece from my room, and pack it as tight as humanly possible without making airflow impossible, shaky hands spilling weed all over the coffee table. Normally, I’d scoop it back into the grinder, but conserving drugs is not at the forefront of my thoughts at this current moment. 

I should not feel weird about opening up to a guy I’ve known for almost a decade. While Lucas and I weren’t always close friends, we were in each other’s social spheres until we eventually just became a part of a chosen family. We’ve seen each other go through some seriously dark shit, and when everything in my life went down this year, he was the person to step up and offer to move into a new place with me. If there is anyone in this world that I can go to right now, it’s Lucas. 

He sparks the bowl while I dig through the depths of my soul for all the courage to finally be vulnerable and honest. I don’t notice when he reaches out to pass it to me, and finally he seems to become aware of my deafening silence. 

“You okay?”

The two words carry so much goddamn weight. Because, yes, I am okay, in the grand scheme of things. Everyday, good or bad, I grow into a newer, better human being. But right now, at this very moment, something inside of me is telling me that I’m worthless. This voice in my head, the one composed of every horrible thing I have yet to heal, screams through my bones that I will always be broken. All that was ever wrong with me will always be wrong with me, and I can try to change, but, eventually, we all slip into old habits. This voice that creeps into even the brightest of days, and embraces the darkest of nights. This voice that sounds an awful lot like mine. 

I turn my head to stare into his eyes, thinking of all the words clashing against the back of my throat, conflicted on what will come out of unleashing my thoughts into the material world. Once again, a force that is not me takes over my body and produces a shrug. Lucas nods, tearing away from my gaze with a look of contemplation resting comfortably across his face. The silence grows louder. I desperately continue searching for something inside of me that’s willing to give in to human companionship, to expression, to love. I can feel the moment pass with every second my lips remain sealed. 

“I think…” finally, something comes out of me, “I think I need to go to therapy.” The words come out with an unexpected chuckle. Nothing follows. Suddenly, my brain is blank. I have to look at Lucas for a reaction. 

“You’ve said that before.” He says, “Are you going to do anything about it, though?”

This hit me like a sack of bowling balls. Of course tonight's not the very first time in my life that I’ve tried to open up to the people around me. Looking back, there have been countless nights I’ve emerged from my room with the intention of going to my roommates for advice, only to brush off my sadness with jokes and other evasive maneuvers. I just didn’t think anyone noticed. Hell, I hardly noticed. 

“Look, you’ve been through, ya know, a lot. And that’s not something any of us are unaware of, but we also know that it affects you, right?” Lucas continues after I don’t respond for a few minutes, “It’s totally understandable to want to go to a professional, but in the meantime, you’re allowed to come to your friends for advice.”  

Yeah right, the voice inside my head speaks up, he says that now, but after a couple of weeks, he’ll be counting down the days until your lease ends. 

“It’s hard,” I try to speak over the internal noise, “I don’t want to be the person you always have to help.” You already are, the voice seethes, the least you can do is spare them from your feelings. My brain begins to throb, opposing thoughts creating an invisible chaos inside of me. In reality, all I want is a hug. For someone to tell me that I’m going in the right direction, and that the voice inside my head is just that- a voice. It is not me, nor my beliefs, and I don’t have to listen to it. 

How could you be so selfish to ask another person to do that for you? 

Defeat.

“I think I just need some sleep.” I say, unable to hide the anguish from my tone. Lucas lets out a disappointed sigh while I gather my things, bidding me a half hearted goodnight as I shut myself back into my room. A cold feeling floods through my veins, and I collapse on to my bed. 

All you do is push people away, the words swarm around in my brain, he offered you a safe space and you just rejected it like a heartless bitch. You wonder why no one is ever there for you, and then waste every opportunity you have to open up. It’s no surprise you’re all alone. Tears stream down my face, and I desperately try to regain my breath. Even your father struggled to care about you. And why should he? You tormented him until his very last day. My knees curl into my chest, and all control over what’s going through my mind is lost. If you had moved out when you said you were, your brother could still have a father right now. He probably died just to get away from you. 

The spirals only continue to drag me down in the darkness of my bedroom. All of the things I try to be so grateful for seem to sneer back at me, only exposing all that I have never had. I begin to submit to the idea that this is how I fall asleep tonight, full of pain and conflict, when there’s a knock from my door. The knock is more of an announcement, rather than a request for permission, and Lucas doesn’t wait for me to say anything to open the door.

Without words, I’m being pulled into a standing position and engulfed in a hug. I remain limp for a moment, processing this extremely genuine act of kindness, before returning the gesture. When we finally part after a few comfortable minutes, my heart has returned to it’s normal pace. 

I open my mouth to explain, but Lucas cuts me off, “You don’t have to explain if it’s too hard. Just know that I’m here for you, and I’m proud of you.” 

I wait for the voice in my head to retaliate, but it seems to have gone dormant for now, giving me the space to formulate the words I was grasping for. 

And yet, there seems to be nothing more to say.