When Too Much Isn't True

TW SEXUAL ABUSE, DISSOCIATION, INTRUSIVE THOUGHTS, INTERNALIZED VICTIM BLAMING

"I've said too much." My heart pounded against the prison bars of my ribcage. My mouth was dry. 

"You haven't said anything!" She shouted, but that wasn't true. If that was true, she wouldn't be frustrated with me, would be entirely unaware anything was wrong in the first place. Nothing was supposed to be. Nothing was supposed to be wrong. On paper, my life was ideal. I lived rent free with my parents, I have a disabled older brother, sure, but he adored me. I was normal. I was fine. I had no reason to be panicking after being asked a question as low stakes as 'how are you?'

But my reply wasn't normal. I said something stupid. I said I was scared. That only served to make my coworker concerned, and myself more scared. I backed myself into a corner I can't escape, since when she asked "what're you scared of?" My response was that "I've said too much." 

"You haven't said anything!" She shouted, and I involuntarily flinched. I hadn't said anything, just like I hadn't said anything last night when my brother - don't think about that, I admonished myself. It was over, and I shouldn't be scared at all to begin with.

"Andy, you okay?" She was softer this time, concerned. "You flinched. What - what are you scared of?"

"Nothing. I didn't mean that. I- I should get back to work. We both should." And I retreated to my office like the coward I was. Coward I am. I was honest for a moment and then retreated, like anyone could possibly rescue someone in denial that they need rescuing. I didn't, anyway. I needed to find a way to like what he did, to love him enough I could -

Not think about it at work, for one. But the unfinished half of the thought comes up in spite of myself. Love him right, make the wrongness go away, make myself love him how I'm supposed to. I can't control my thoughts, just like I couldn't control my words earlier. I blurted out I was scared like something was wrong, like I had a right to feel whatever this is that I feel. Which, maybe I do? I did what was asked of me. Unlike me at work today, wherein I not only failed socially, but also in most other respects. I get almost nothing done, and that's before I started dissociating. I don't know why. I don't have a reason to be, just like I didn't have a reason to be scared of my coworker's question. I just am, I just do, and I don't know what to do about it when finally I'm not scared anymore but only because nothing feels real at all.

I sit there for a while, staring at my computer to mask that I'm staring into space. At one point, she walked into my office, offered me coffee, an unspoken peace treaty. All is not normal but that's my fault, not hers. All she had done was care about me, which she wouldn't, if she knew. 

Only even as I think that, part of me doubts it. She had seemed genuinely concerned when I flinched, and the gentleness she had reacted with made me think she had dealt with people in abusive situations before. My breath stops mid inhale as I think that again. 'Abusive situations' - I had never used those words even in my thoughts before. But that was what it was, I thought. I was then evicted from thought entirely, too overwhelmed by the whole idea. Luckily, my job didn't require much thought.

When I'm brought back to reality, it's again this same coworker, Rachel, this time asking me if I could scan something for her. I nod, afraid of what might exit my mouth if I spoke. "I've said too much." What the hell was wrong with me? I hadn't said anything, she had been right. Anyway, she squeezed my shoulder in thanks for my agreement, and I did not react in any outward way. That felt like a victory internally. Nothing was wrong, and I was acting that way.

Only the feeling of her hand on my shoulder, a brief squeeze, lingered long after the physical contact ceased. I was scanning her documents, and the traitorous thought entered my mind: why would she touch me if not because she would eventually want more from me? The memory of her brief squeeze morphed with the memory of his hands on my shoulder, his unnerving promixity before he had closed the gap completely... but I wasn't at home, I wasn't thinking the a-word, I was going to scan my colleague's documents and return to my desk like... like whatever I am.

Only what do I do with the originals now that they've been scanned? I have to ask her if they need to be shredded. I don't want to, but all I ever seem to do recently is stuff I don't want to. Plus she's kind, part of me thought. Maybe she'll ask again why I'm so scared. Maybe I'll answer.

"What should I do with the paper copies now that they've scanned?"

"Just shred 'em. Hey, I'm sorry about earlier, asking how you are, if I seemed overly intrusive or anything. I just - we're friends, and you've seemed so down lately, so I guess I was hoping you might open up, but I should never have shouted at you." To my horror, I feel tears begin to prick my eyes. I blink them away. I don't know what to say. Almost automatically I find myself moving towards the shredder, my only acknowledgement of her kind apology being a nod. The machine roars, too loud, destroying documents never to be read again. I hope my situation isn't like that, like that was my only chance and I turned away from it.

I turned away from it for a reason, albeit one that feels like more of a lie every time I think it. I love my brother. I can't turn him into a monster, no matter what my traitorous thoughts sometimes slip out. When I finally have to leave work, I make sure to tell Rachel goodnight. She doesn't wish me one, instead telling me to get home safe. The travel home wouldn't be the problem, I think to myself as I leave. Home is what's - no, it's not unsafe, he's not the a-word, I'm the one who can't seem to love my brother the way he loves me. The way I'm supposed to. I'm the person with the problem here, not Evan. Evan just... he doesn't understand. If I was a better person, I might try to teach him, but I'm the same coward I was this morning.

 I'm just Andy, just the youngest child returning home from my dead end office job. Evan runs to the door and throws his arms around me before I even enter the house. He's hugging Andy, his loyal brother, and I'm outside myself as the bodies walk together into the house, as his body never leaves mine, his lips press against the body he's holding. Andy drifts away, out of reality. Out into the realm of abstraction.

If he was better he would teach Evan about boundaries, how wanting something doesn't mean you'll always get it. But he's not and he lets him, doesn't push the older man away no matter how badly he wants to. Andy's body is engulfed by the older, larger one, as the two continue making out on the couch. As hands remove clothes and then - the front door opens and Andy hopes for a brief moment Mom maybe brought home pizza, dinner would be ready immediately, meaning Evan's playtime would be over. But Andy hears pots clank and water runs, and his brother - his brother, who he is supposed to love - touches him again in ways Andy had wrongly imagined Rachel wanting to at work. Touching and kissing and this shouldn't be love... 

When I return to reality, we're mid-dinner, Evan regaling our parents with stories about the shoppers at the grocery store he worked at. Mom's prompting him with questions, trying to encourage prosocial behaviors the way Evan's therapist always recommends. I can taste Evan, so I cut myself a piece of steak to replace the taste. Dad and I are both quietly eating, waiting for the meal to be over. Dad came home at some point while Mom was cooking. Eventually Mom asks how my day went, but when I say not much happened, Evan started repeating himself again.

When dinner is over, I can finally escape into a world unlike the one I live in, a nonfiction political thriller Evan would never be able to comprehend. My library books are a piece of the universe that's entirely mine, that he can't have. He can have my body, but not my mind. My thoughts switching to third person even represented that in a sense, how he could have a body, but when he had it, it wasn't really mine anymore. Of course, thinking that brings back memories of how wrong that thought is, how viscerally I did feel what he did even if only hours later. Fuck thinking, I call it a night. I have work tomorrow.

I never dream, or if I do, they're unmemorable. My morning is also unmemorable.

Second verse, same as the first: Rachel asks 'how are you?' And I don't know what my face does but its bad enough she offers me a hug, which only makes 'how I am' worse, remembering Evan's hug from yesterday and how it morphed into no-longer-a-hug. 

"Don't touch me, please!" I exclaim almost as though it's an instinct, the four words I most want to say when at home leaving me at work instead.

Rachel raises her hands as though in surrender. "I won't, don't worry. I have no intentions of being written up for sexual harassment. You just look like you could use a hug, but I respect that you don't want one."

I don't know what I feel. I don't know why that feels so foreign, the thought of someone respecting me. Rachel speaks again before I can fail to with the lump in my throat. "Hey, why don't we hang out in my office? No pressure if you don't want to talk but whatever you were scared of yesterday seems to be worse today and I don't think you're gonna get much work done, and I won't since I'm worried about you."

I follow her into her office, regret sinking in as she shuts the door, but if I decide to tell her, someone overhearing is the worst possible outcome. Still, that also means she could - Rachel’s kind, Rachel just joked about respecting my boundaries. Rachel isn’t Evan. I sit across the table, where a client would if this was an ordinary meeting. Rachel sits in her office chair, and I feel myself start to dissociate again but I hold onto the desk to ground myself.

“Take your time. You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to.” I don't want to say anything. I don't want to be in a situation where I feel like saying anything is a betrayal, where I feel so intensely scared all the time of the simple act of returning home, which should be a comfort. I start there.

"I'm scared."

"Yeah, you mentioned yesterday. Why?" I take a deep breath and begin backtracking.

"It's stupid, I shouldn't be scared, I don't know why it's impacting me so badly now."

"Hey, if something is scaring you, it's not stupid. Sometimes talking about your fears can help."

I’m not supposed to talk about it, I think to myself. But doing what I’m supposed to has only gotten me to where I’m supposed to be happy, and I’m not - I’m terrified all the time.

“You don’t have to," Rachel offers, mistaking my hesitation for reluctance. "if you want to just be distracted we can do that instead, I honestly appreciate the company.” 

"No, I - yesterday when I flinched, you were really sweet and, just, I was wondering, if you have any experience with abusive situations?" Now Rachel paled, obviously not okay and I didn't know what to do but continue. "I'm not trying to pry or dig up dirty laundry, it's just - it's just if you don't, I don't want to burden you with my problem."

"You're not a burden, Andy. Yes, I have friends who have left abusive situations, and if you need help - you live with your parents, right? So if your girlfriend or boyfriend is mistreating you, can't you just have them banned from the house?"

"I'm single, Rachel. My parents are the problem, or, well, not exactly. My brother..." I can't talk, as I finally start crying. I don't want to, but I don't want to hide anymore either. Rachel hands me a tissue, apologizing.

"What about your brother? You're scared of him?" I freeze. If I nod, I don't know what will happen. My words from yesterday run through my mind again: I've said too much. I try speaking again.

"Yeah, yes, I shouldn't be but..." and I say too much for real this time.