Page 18 of The Jester and His Outlaw: Part 2

“Fuck you.”

Maybe not. Maybe it will be alright. She could be what I need, if not death.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Dry your ass and get out of the shower. I brought food.”

The next morning,aside from the headache forged in Hell that is a mix of concussion and alcohol, I have two options swirling around in my head: I can get my shit together and go get my girl or I can end everyone’s misery for good.

One option will hurt me, the other option will hurt those I love.

It’s no secret that suicide has always been on the table for me. Right after Gramma died, had Jensen left me alone, I would probably have done just that.

But at this point, it’s not just me. I want to say that Jensen has been enough of an influence in my life that the need would have gone away, but it’s always been there. What has kept me from following through, who has kept me from following through, is Charley.

Her heart is involved now and I’m not a selfish person. At least I try not to be.

I can’t do that to her. If that phone call last night was any consolation, losing me would devastate her more than I already have. I don’t understand her love for me, but I can’t deny our connection.

I’d rather live a lifetime of pain than put her through my death if I can help it.

So, that leaves me with one option: Get my act together because I can’t keep putting them through my shit like I did last night. They all deserve so much better from me. I claim I’m not a selfish person, but what I’m doing, what I’ve been doing, is selfish.

I’m not exactly sure how this works. Usually when one says they need to get their shit together, that means financially or to grow up. I grew up a long time ago.

I need to stabilize my mental health, and without insurance, I have no idea how I’m going to do that. I could solidify my living situation, which involves asking for help, and I’m not quite ready for that. Where do I go from here?

Ask for help.

One foot in front of the other and baby steps. One day at a time, one moment at a time and all that jazz. Right?

Rome wasn’t built in a day. I need to be kind to myself and celebrate the small victories.

I woke up this morning and decided to get my shit together. That’s something to celebrate.

The way my head throbs has my hearing vibing in and out as if the wind is blowing in a vortex. As if I really know what that feels like or sounds like, but it seems right. This is one problem I can solve.

Jensen, being the standup best friend that he is, left some Advil on the nightstand with a bottle of water. I’m not sure where he got either of them from because I can barely afford tap water, let alone a case of the fancy shit. He must have come prepared for anything last night.

I wouldn’t put it past him because that’s just the kind of guy he is. The guy I owe a huge thanks, too.

I swallow the pills, and despite the protest my stomach puts on, I down the bottle of water. It sloshes around in my empty stomach but does well to curb the burning sensation that’s been occurring since I sat up.

The shower beckons me and as I cross the living room and Gramma’s closed door, the silence of my apartment registers. Gramma wasn’t a loud person by any means, but she always had the television playing and a snarky reply waiting for me wherever she was.

I miss the fuck out of that. I miss the fuck out of her. Her light, her smiles, her wild hair. The backs of my eyes burn at the thought of her smile, but I keep any tears corralled where they belong. She wouldn’t want me crying over her.

She wouldn’t want this or what happened last night for me. If there is an afterlife, she’s probably looking down on me ashamed of my rock bottom status, of pushing everyone away and wallowing in my grief and self pity. This isn’t any way to honor the hard work she put in to keep me in line. My mood isn’t good enough for me to say that she’d want me out there living it up and chasing my dreams, but baby steps, right?

One day, I’ll get there.

Hot water soothes my aching muscles that are tight from vomiting, stress, and sleeping in whatever position I flopped onto the bed into. It trickles down my body as I position the pressure of the shower head on my neck to ease the tension there.

Even with great effort to steer my mind in a different direction, I’m ready to think of Charley now. She’s with me as I wash and rinse both my body and my hair, then turn the shower off and dry myself. My thoughts of her are so vivid, I can almost smell her shampoo, feel her soft hair filtering through my fingers like liquid silk. I love her hair.

I want to touch her, to hold her. To let her know I choose her. If she’ll have me—I have no clue why she ever would—she is the one I want to be with. I want to hold her in my arms, feel her close to my heart. She doesn’t need a hero, but I’m going to be strong enough to deserve her love.

My small victory celebration continues when I fix myself some waffles made from scratch because that is the only way to eat them. No syrup because I’m out, but I smother them in peanut butter and semi-sweet chocolate chips. The tiny ones that melt almost instantly from the heat of the waffle they burrow into. I can only manage a few bites because I’ve been starving myself for so long lately that anything more and my stomach puts a stop to it. Something is better than nothing and I’ll try to get more in me in a bit.

With my stomach full and the dishes washed, I decide some time on my bike, ripping around the countryside, will do me some good. Clear my head so I can come up with a plan to get Charley back, to apologize and let her know that I’m in this. With her help, Iwilldo better.

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