Page 124 of My Debacle with De Lorenzo

“So, it’s going okay, then?”

“You can go straight to hell! I hate all of you!”

“Can I at least get a hug before I...go to hell? I haven’t seen you in two months.”

“No!” Her face reddens with anger. “I hate you! I hate that woman who pretends to be my mother.”

I half-sit on her dresser. “Yeah, she’s awful. I’m not fond of her either. Now, can I get my hug?”

I don’t get an answer in words. A lampshade comes flying at me and I shift a little so it hits the wall instead of me, the porcelain shattering to pieces on impact. My sister is level nine crazy – The Vandal. And it makes sense because she was hurt really bad. When she gets triggered, she’ll destroy anything she can get her hands on.

“Ah, c’mon, Dana. We just got that one for you. This is why we can’t buy you nice things.”

Her hairbrush is flung at me next and just narrowly misses my head. “What does it matter if I have nice things? I’m never here to enjoy it. None of you want me. I don’t even know why you’re in my room. Is it just to relieve your own guilt because you know you abandoned me, just like mom and dad? You pretend to be my caring big brother, but you don’t care about me...otherwise, you would tell them to let me come home. You wouldn’t let me suffer...but you do, so what does that say?”

That slices into me, and I drop my head to give myself some time to dull the impact of those words. I remind myself that this is a trauma tantrum, and she doesn’t mean that, but knowing that doesn’t make it easier to hear. A small sob comes from the other side of the room. She’s crying, and I need to act fast because if I don’t, this room will end up looking like a tornado ran through it.

I look up at her again. “Would you quit whining? Not everything is about you. You go through life feeling sorry for yourself with this woe is me attitude. There are people out there with bigger problems than yours.”

She’s stunned into silence. The tears have stopped, and she stares at me wordlessly, expectantly. “Finish it,” she requests softly.

This could go either way, so I give it some thought before I answer. “Just the other day, I was standing in line at Starbucks and this guy in front of me ordered a double espresso, and do you know what they gave him, Dana? A fucking chai latte. Think about the travesty that happens out there in the real world instead of always thinking about yourself.”

She flies off the bed, knocking the wind out of me as she crashes into my chest, and I finally get my hug. “I don’t hate you,” she sobs, her tears soaking through my T-shirt. “I’m sorry I said that. I don’t hate you.”

“I know.” I kiss the top of her head, holding her until she’s ready to let go, until she feels like she’s home again.

When she finally pulls away, she gives me a weak smile. “Chai latte was a good one.”

“Right? I shocked myself with the brilliance of that one. Do you want to go get some ice cream? If you promise not to run away, we can get out of here for a while.”

She nods. “I’d like that.”

“I mean it, Dana. The last time I had to chase you down the street and people almost called the cops because they thought I was attacking you, so no running.”

Dana is chasing a state of mind, not a feeling. What she suffers from is more than mere withdrawal symptoms. She wants more than the high, more than the drugs. She’s been clean for months, yet she still chases it because she’s craving freedom. She wants to escape her own mind because that’s where her demons live. The drugs kill those demons, or at the very least, it puts them to sleep for a while, and she wants that so badly, to just shut it all off in her head.

We never know what we’re going to get when she comes home for the weekend. Sometimes she gets so desperate that she runs off looking for someone who can sell her the freedom she craves. Other times, she’ll steal our wallets and try to sneak out in the middle of the night. This is a safe neighborhood. We don’t need a security guard, but we had to hire Oscar as a backup, just in case she gets out of the house. She hates being locked up. It only makes her feel more trapped, but we have to do it.

“No running, I promise.”

I put my hand out. “I need my wallet back first.”

“I don’t have your wallet.”

“You took it from my back pocket while we were hugging.

She rolls her eyes, then takes it out of the sleeve of her sweater and slaps it into my hand.

“Thank you. Let’s go.”

I tell my mom we’re going out, then I drive her to a small diner a few blocks away. It’s a quaint little place with only a few customers because I try my best to avoid malls or crowded places when I’m with her. I order a chocolate sundae for me, and a banana split for her.

“So, have you made any new friends?” I ask when the waitress places our desserts in front of us.

“Yeah, this girl Mae. She’s eighteen and she’s really nice. We get along well.” She shrugs and takes a bite. “But she’ll leave soon and then I’ll be alone again. Everyone goes home except me.”

“You’ll come home soon, too,” I assure her. “When you stop stealing wallets and running off, Mom and Dad will let you come home.” I say it like the problem is that easy to solve. It’s not.

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