Page 170 of Wrath

I’ve talked to one of the counselors that comes here every other day, because that’s mandatory. Letting them know what we need. I told the counselor woman I left my mom’s house, and I’m gay. That I’ve been using benzos—a more believable and generic tale than detoxing from half a dozen psych meds—but I can detox from them fast, because I’ve done it before. There’s a kitchen with a bunch of vitamins and supplements, a “medicine lady” named Krystal, a piano room, two common rooms, and a screened-in back porch that’s got a pool table and foosball. Once a week, on Saturdays, a local artist comes and leads a workshopin the fenced-in back yard, under the big oak trees. Sundays, everyone is encouraged to meditate.

The only catch to staying here is that you have to sign a paper promising you’ll reach out if you relapse and need help, and you have to agree to an hour of counseling per week.

I put my hand over the tattoo on my chest and say my new name in my head:Miller.

It’s a clean name. Sounds good. Like a good person who wants to have a good life. It sounds like a fresh start.

I get the laptop and fire the thing up, for the second time since I got here. I emailed my mom from a new email address to her work email the first night I arrived here, telling her that I’m not coming back home. I warned her if she decided to try to arm-twist me into anything—coming back to her house, doing more ECT—by telling the cops what happened at Alton, I’ll tell my side of the story. I could fucking wreck her if I wanted to. I could wreck them all.

I don’t want to, though.

I just want to move on.

I stare at the email that’s been sitting in my new inbox for a day and a half. The one from the University of Alabama. I reached out the other day to recruitment, letting them know my old email address was outdated and giving them this new one. Within five hours, I got an email asking me to commit to their program. I look over it again. The benefits are sick. Nice place to live, free everything. Complimentary laptop, clothes, shoes, even a fucking travel budget.

I look at the campus pictures. Lots of big trees. I look at the gay shit the place has. Check. It’s got more students than its rival, Auburn. If there’s more students, that means there’s more gays. Yeah, it’s in the same state that my bigot father lives in, but it’s also the Crimson Fucking Tide. If it’s a big, state school—which it is—maybe I could get lost there with…nobody I know.

But I’m trying to stop thinking fucking negative. Eventhough I felt like shit the last few days—dizzy, cold sweats, lots of good old-fashioned detox anxiety—I’m not going to stop trying.

I’ve wanted to play college ball my whole life. I might not remember anything from the last six months, but I did something right in Fairplay. I made one of the best college football programs in the country want me. I know there’s Ohio. Stanford. Notre Dame. My mom mentioned them. Even Auburn. But I think it’s the Crimson Tide I want.

I email back—and commit. It’s a big moment, but I can’t enjoy it. I linger online, trying to hack into my Facebook account with no success. Can’t do that without my OG email password. Which I don’t have.

I type my dad’s name into the search bar and then quickly shut the window.

No distractions.

There’s a yoga class in the backyard in five minutes. I force myself to eat an apple. Then I grab a mat and go out. There’s two other residents out here—an older girl named Lara and a guy who looks my age named Yancy. I try to ignore them and just focus on the instructor. Yoga is weird. It hurts my back. I think I still like it. I like breathing.

I get my clothes out of the dryer. There’s a whole room here of clothes, so I got a few shirts and pants out of there and washed them for myself. After folding the clothes, I take them to my room. I check my email again.

UA has already replied. The guy seems happy, wants to do a phone call ASAP. Now it’s time to drop the bomb. I email back, telling him I assume he knows I had to pull out of school due to a death in the family. I let him know I’m taking the GED in early summer and ask him to look back over my high school transcripts. I don’t have a fucking clue about this past year, but I’m good in school. I took the SAT and ACT when I was living at Mom’s house; it was one of the first things I didafter getting out of SP the first time. And anyway, I aced them both.

I’m pretty relieved when the guy replies right back and CCs an academic counselor. He says he knows my grades are good. That they’re not worried. I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing deep for just a minute.

You got this. It’s gonna be okay.

I shut the computer…lie on the bed face-down with an arm around my pillow.

I know I forgot stuff. I can feel it.

I got this feeling, back at Mom's house, right after whatever happened with the ECT. It was like...this falling feeling. Like being scared, like falling. Grasping for something.But I can’t reach it.

But now it's sorta shifted. Now it's like something is scratching my brain from the inside. I can't explain it. It almost hurts. It's like this…pain. Still makes my chest tight.

I don't let myself dwell on it too much. I could always die if it gets too bad. It's weird, because I remember when I wanted to. And, okay. I still sort of want to.I would like to be done. I'm 19, and I feel 79. So much shit has happened to me. Things that I can't ever fix. I can't undo.

You know what you need to stay alive? I figured this out. You need someone. It can even just be one person. That makes you feel...tethered to life. Like you're not alone and drifting with no meaning. Like you're not the only alien on the planet.

After Alton, coming home to my mom...with her being how she was. It made me feel like there was nothing I could do but end it. Stop the torture. Get off the ride.

But I'm trying to tell myself that I don't need a whole-ass tether. I just need one rung at a time. I need something to grip onto for a second. Maybe not someone. Just football. Maybe someone. Amelia. She's got a smile that makes me feel like things could be okay.

I'm not going to keep on living with my arms by my sides anymore. If I keep doing that, I know I'll die. I'm holding onto football. Holding onto little weird shit. Like the way this detergent here smells. Like having soft sheets. And tomorrow, when we all go out—we can go out with or without a chaperone—I can go to a bookstore.

My wallet had four twenties in it, two fives, and three ones. I'm going to buy some books. And read them. I've gotta figure out a way to see myself differently. Be different. Not like a victim.

But it's not happening tonight. I wake up at 1:02, sobbing so hard I can't breathe. My whole body's shaking, amped up on adrenaline and all this other fuckshit. I sit up in bed and lean my back against the headboard.

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