Page 155 of Becoming Us
Then came last night. She called, asked for more money. I refused. She hung up.
More guilt.
All through my dad’s illness, I’d believed that moment—when he passed—would be the worst. Nothing could hurt more than that.
How naïve was I?
As time crept on, what I’d thought was pain turned out to be mostly shock. The real grief had seeped in long before he’d died, and kept growing, second by second, until it was impossible to ignore. Impossible to breathe.
Blow helped.
At first, it just made everything easier. I needed a distraction—and then I needed to be part of the distraction. I couldn’t keep showing up to parties and staring at the walls like a ghost. I had to be fun. Or at least seem human.
It helped.
At first…
Then it got harder. I needed more. More endorphins. More charm. More interesting things to talk about. I couldn’t just bethe guy whose dad died and whose mom tore him down. I had to become someone else.
Only when I was home alone could I be that guy again.
The sad guy.
The worthless guy.
I’d spent so much time crying under the shower, sitting on the cold tiled floor, I stopped keeping track of time.
I knocked on the door.
A voice called me in. We went through the introductions and the niceties. The couch creaked when I sat. It felt cold, even through the fabric of my pants.
“So, Noah. What brings you here?”
Hell of an opening line.
“Well, my dad died a couple of months ago. Cancer. I haven’t been doing too well.”
His eyes stayed on his tablet. “What’s ‘not well’?”
“I haven’t been sleeping. I’m sad, which I guess is normal. I’m just not sure it’s normal to feelthissad. I’m having a hard time getting out of bed. It’s like my body forgets how. Everything feels heavier, and my brain doesn’t send the right signals. I’m not sure if I’ve actually lived through the hours—they just pass. And I’m crying all the time. Not loudly,” I added, pausing to lick my lips. The dull tapping of his fingers on the screen filled the silence. “They just fall, nonstop. The tears. And I have this feeling?—”
I stopped, waiting for him to at least glance up. I’d been to therapy before. They usually looked at you.
“Yes,” he prompted, eyes unmoving.
I rubbed a hand across my chest. “It’s like there’s pressure on my heart. Like when you’ve really fucked up. Except I’m not sure what I did wrong. There are probably a hundred things, but I can’t pinpoint one. And it’s always there. Sometimes it gets so heavy I forget how to breathe.”
He nodded slowly. “Have you lost weight?”
I frowned. “I think so. I’m not really hungry.” I sniffled, pinching my nose. My leg started to bounce, and I pressed my palm against it.
“Sleeping?”
“Um, no… I haven’t been sleeping,” I repeated.
Another nod.
“Have you been self-medicating?”
