Page 75 of Commit

When I leave, I feel different. Not better, but my thoughts are a little clearer, and panic isn’t making it hard to breathe.

Now that I’m able to think, I know there’s another place I need to go before I go back and face everything.

The center looks the same way it always did—largely uninviting with its gray bricks and nondescript signage. However, much like the drab rooms in a hospital, this is the place I came to heal. I might not have realized it at the time, but they gave me tools that, when I was ready, I was able to draw on.

I push through the security door and walk over to the receptionist, who smiles and looks up at me through her half-moon glasses.

“Hello, how can I help you, dear?”

“Hi, I used to come here a few years ago. They did group meetings for people with um… issues like eating disorders and self-harming behaviors.”

“Oh yes, we still do those. Today’s session started ten minutes ago. The next one is tomorrow evening at seven p.m.”

“I’m not sure if I can make it back tomorrow. Would I possibly be able to sneak into today’s?”

“We don’t usually allow anyone to enter once a meeting has started.”

My shoulders sag.

“But I don’t think it’ll matter just this once. If they ask, tell them Penny said it was okay.”

“I will, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, hon.”

The phone beside her rings, so she answers it as I walk away, heading to the room where the meetings always used to be held.

Sure enough, I find a group of people sitting around in a circle as I look through the small window before opening the door quietly. All eyes turn my way, making me flush. The therapist frowns at me before recognition lights up his face, making me offer him a small smile.

There’s something vaguely familiar about him, but honestly, when I used to come here, my focus was on trying to stay upright. The faces of the doctors and therapists all blended together.

“Welcome, come take a seat.”

I take the last empty seat between an emaciated woman who’s probably twice my age and a guy maybe a few years older than me with face tattoos similar to Post Malone’s. I don’t think he’s here because of a music affiliation, though, but a gang one.

“Jacob here was just telling us about his week. Please continue.”

Jacob, the guy beside me, nods, looking down at his beat-up sneakers.

“I went to Marjorie’s grave. I told her I was sorry. I thought joining a gang would give us better protection. I…” He buries his head in his hands, taking a moment to get himself together.

We all wait silently until he lifts his head, his eyes red as he fights back his tears.

“She was raped, and as part of my initiation, I was supposed to watch. When I tried to stop them, they slit her throat and killed her. I lost my mom and my sister that day. My mom to the bottle, my sister to the people I thought were my brothers. And I have no one to blame but myself.”

“You didn’t kill your sister; they did. You didn’t make your mother pick up the bottle; she did that to herself,” the counselor points out, but Jacob shakes his head.

I understand. The counselor isn’t wrong, but neither is Jacob. Guilt, whether misplaced or justified, is a heavy burden to carry and let go of. Everyone needs somebody to blame, even if it means pointing a finger at ourselves.

It’s a process. Letting go of that burden is far harder than anyone understands. After guilt comes acceptance and eventually forgiveness, but not everyone wants that.

I will never accept what happened to me, and I’ll never forgive those who hurt me. That means I’m forever stuck in my guilty era, asking questions like, was it my fault? Did I do something to deserve this? Did I say too much or not enough? Could I have fought harder, screamed?—

I blow out an angry breath, refusing to let the toxic whispers taunt me.

“Would you like to share something?”

When no one answers, I look up from my lap and realize the counselor is talking to me. I’m about to shake my head but stop myself. Since I probably won’t ever be coming back, I start talking without really knowing what I’m going to say.

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