In Which I'm Shrinked
Saturday around one PM, I peeled the lid off of a pint of Ben and Jerry's vanilla Heath bar crunch. It's a standard. You've got Phish Food or Brownie Batter for rambunctious times, rich with caramel and/or fudgy pieces, and coffee or vanilla Heath bar crunch, sweeter, plainer, less decadent, more comforting, for more solemn occasions.
So there I was, sitting droopily at my desk in a thermal gray camp shirt, fuzzy socks, and plaid pajama pants, and I took my spoon up to crack the first piece of melty Heath out of the top of the container. I had just changed out of my funeral clothes--an ill-fitting skirt and ruffly blouse. I had taken out my earrings, peeled off my contacts and replaced them with my glasses, and I sighed, hunchbacked with exhaustion, basically drooling, as I wearily watched the creamy little beads of oozing Heath pooling out of the air bubbles in the ice cream. You know when you're about to eat something and know that it will taste too good for the moment? Like, you're so emotionally and physically exhausted that taking a bite of that Ben and Jerry's will kick the last bit of tar right out of you and you will crawl like a robot to your bed and collapse?
Here's a piece of blindingly brilliant advice: Get more than three hours of sleep the night before a funeral. Especially a funeral that you're supposed to sing at. Especially a funeral that you have to show up for around 8:30 and leave at around 1:00. Especially a funeral that is a new kind of funereal situation for you, as far as funerals go. Especially when the funeral is for someone your age (TWENTY) who is the child of someone who has arguably been a better friend and parent figure to you than anyone ever has, ever. Especially when this parent person is one of those people who you feel like you've known for longer than you've been alive. And who's kept you alive.
My freshman year of college was scary. It was also fun, rewarding, hard, exciting, and I made a lot of close friends in my dorm. Beautiful amazing snappy girls who have changed my life. But, it was scary. It was scary that I developed anxiety. It was scary to leave high school, to leave the threadbare, easy comfort of Orem High behind, to go somewhere where homework was actually required, where people showered and went to bed on time, where I would live on a hall with 40 shining girls with eighteen talents apiece and clear ringing laughter and snowflake-cutting abilities like none I'd ever seen--when I was accustomed to hanging out with mostly boys, my family, Chelsea, people I had known for years.
Being on the hall got to be too much one day in November of 2007, the fifteenth, I think. I developed a composite itching symptom of too many frozen pizzas, a boyfriend that I was having trouble with, having no idea how to handle any of my classes, bad weather, perfection (or so I thought) all around me, many many spiritual doubts, and supreme anxiety. This whalloped me in the face, I had a nervous breakdown curled up in a ball and my mom dragged my non-responsive butt worriedly down way of the campus counseling center the next morning. They assigned me a counselor at random. Oh great now I was a crazy person. Great great great. I mean psychologist, I don't mean career or major counselor. I mean shrink. I walked into his office, plopped down, and stared drily at the wall behind him. I was wearing tannish sweats and a wrinkled t-shirt, I remember, and probably hadn't showered for a few days. I was sick of living for the first time in my life.
He's my friend.
I have an MP3 of that first session. It's remarkable to have a copy, an audio copy, of the first conversation I ever had with someone who has had such an impact on my life. Imagine if you had a copy of each of your first conversations with people that are important to you. Wouldn't that be the most fascinating thing to listen to? In this first conversation, he and I talked for 58 minutes about problems I had that make me smile at their silliness now. Obviously they weren't silly then, they were making me very upset, but now I listen to what I said and how I said it and what I was worrying about and who I was worrying about, and to how much younger I sounded, and how fake. I listen to how he sounded exactly the same that day as he does now, such a long time later. He's never really shown a ton of emotion. I wonder if when I grow up I'll sound the same over two-year periods.
I met with one of forty or so counselors, my counselor. I was assigned to him randomly. That first time we met we talked about neurotransmitters and I heard him use the word "lousy" for the first time and I laughed a lot. I remember he did this thing with his raised hand and crooked fingers when saying "lousy" that he still does, exactly the same. Same thing he does when he says "horse shit!". I explained that day that Talley's name was like tally mark with an e between the l and the y. We talked about Porsches. I lied a lot. He told me who Pavlov was. You can hear me changing positions on my couch about every forty seconds if you listen to the recording.
Since then, I've met with him about once a week pretty consistently. After a while I stopped lying to him because I realized I could trust him and that he seemed to understand me quite well. We got along pretty splendidly. We're coming up on two years of counselance. There have been little breaks in weekly attendance when I wasn't at school, or when one of us was on vacation. When I had mono I still hobbled, clutching my liver, down to campus weekly to see him. Once, when there was a fire drill, he said "nonsense!" about canceling the appointment and we simply paced around campus side by side for an hour. We went through a phase where he'd offer me a diet soda each time I came in and I'd usually take it. That was pretty recent. He drinks tons of diet soda. Once he was eating his lunch when I came in, but only once. He goes running a lot and he really loves his family. He has inkblot things all over his walls, and lots of plants that he waters. He laughs so loud. He is my friend. He has a little Honeymooners lunchbox on his couch that has Jolly Ranchers in it. I don't think I've ever actually eaten one. There've been a few times when I've gotten there late and stayed for just a few minutes, other times when I've stayed two hours, almost. People in training have sat in on sessions. I've cried, like, twice, ever, in front of him. Once was last month. He was very concerned and leaning forward in his chair when I was very upset. That day I went in to see him two different times, once before class, once after. It was a very awful day. I don't remember when the other time was that I cried.
Sometimes we talk about real problems, and sometimes we talk about me going to grad school, and sometimes we laugh our heads off, and sometimes I ask him awkwardly about his life, because I'd like to know about it, but I don't know if I'm supposed to ask questions like that.
When Andy and I broke up (each of the three times, but especially the last) I became very suicidal. Yes, you heard me. Legitimately suicidal. This blog will not go on to Brave Unbalanced for numerous reasons, one of them being that the whole world probably doesn't need to know about that.
So when Andy and I broke up, I kind of lost it. Nothing mattered to me. I didn't want the church, I didn't want Heavenly Father, I didn't want my family or friends or education or clothes or food, I just wanted Andy. Everything I thought about went straight to him, each dish I washed and step I took and each time I turned on my car, each person I talked to, each movie I watched, everything. Every time someone said something they thought about anything, an ugly little Andy voice snapped into the right side of my mind and denounced them harshly, reminding me why they were wrong and that he was much righter, and therefore, much more fulfilled. Everything I ate tasted like him, like the food he made me, like his morning breath or his beer breath or his just-ate-some-oreos breath, everything I smelled reeked of his detergent or his deodorant or his Garnier Fructis shampoo or his Rogaine foam or his semen. I'm not kidding you. It was hell. I would wake up in my own bed, confused, thinking I had been sleeping next to him moments earlier, and crouch into a ball in the corner and sob and sob and sob. Everywhere I went, in the same old blue sweater and my glasses, I was weeping uncontrollably or staring. Just staring. I had multiple blessings given to me, each of them amazing, but the pain was still fading and pulsing and hurting. For a few weeks, it was awful. I continued to check his disgusting blog because I was an idiot, reading the simpering things he wrote about women he met in bars, reading the stories in which he simultaneously tore me down to nothing and built me into his shining, angelic, untouchable ideal. He wrote about his repulsive familial love for and fascination with alcohol. He wrote about my bishop and my best friend and my mother, denouncing them all.
One day towards the end of the bad weeks, I checked his blog after promising myself I wouldn't. It was late afternoon. That day, Andy wrote something particularly tearing, and for some reason, I gave up. I was done. This person who had completely consumed my life was now calling me, and my life, ridiculous. He was calling me weak, calling me weak, calling me weak. He was moving in with another girl. He was moving in with another girl. Another girl would sleep in our bed with him. She would touch him. I was alone and directionless and ugly and worth nothing. I left the blog on the screen and scooted my desk chair backwards and let out a small, finalizing, agitated cry. I raked my hands through my hair and thought about how much I'd miss my family. I paced around my room for a good half hour, deciding how to kill myself. I felt a wild tenderness for Andy at that point. My vision got blurry. I looked it all up on the internet. I thought maybe I'd take a bunch of pills. Sure, I'd always wanted to go up the canyon and drive off the edge, but really, I wasn't going to do it. Much too messy and scary. I really sat here in this room I'm in right now, pulling my hair and roaring and walking around and getting ready. I grabbed a pillow and screamed and screamed and screamed shakingly into it so Jenny wouldn't hear me downstairs. I was so ready. I couldn't feel it any more. I really didn't want to try anymore. I was spiraling downwards, in a big black circle.
I remember glancing at the picture of the Savior on my wall, then out my dusty window, holding the pillow, and remembering that I guess I HAD promised my counselor I'd call him before killing myself, if I ever decided to. I paced a while, dismissing the thought, because I didn't want to make him feel bad, but once again, a few minutes later, someone calm in my brain goes call him, Julie. Call him. Just call him. Please. I figured I'd call him to say goodbye and tell him that I loved him and thanks for all the help, because of all the help he had given me, which was a ton. This was after about 1.5 hours of being determined to kill myself, too. I thought I'd probably miss him the most out of everyone I didn't get to see anymore if I died. I know a lot of people would miss me, and I'd miss them too, but he just kind of gets it. And he's like my dad. So I'd definitely miss him the most.
And I did call him. And he saved my life. Sounds trite, but I don't think there's really any other way to tell you that. He saved my life. One of the things he told me, among many, was that he'd miss me if I was gone. That meant a lot. He also sat with me on the phone while I read to him parts of Andy's blog that hurt me most, and explained to me why they were unreasonable and had nothing to do with my life, or my worth, anyway.
Later that night, I went to Emily's and hung out with her and Kyle, because I was still alive. The next morning, I woke up, and I said my morning prayers, because I was still alive. The next day I ate some cheesecake and hugged Lanee and drove with my windows down, because I was still alive. That Sunday, I went to church and ate dinner with my five-year-old cousin, because I was still alive. The following Monday, I squeezed my best friend's two-year-old in a big hug and told her I loved her, because I was still alive. This next year I will meet my birthmother, and become a senior in college, because I am still alive.
I still get to take hot showers and baths and sleep in on Saturdays and cuddle and listen to rain and have Christmas and a family and run fast down the hill to my car from campus and smell pumpkin things cooking and read books and write stories and wear high heels, because I am alive.
After that suicide day, after we talked, things got quite a bit better overall. I felt much better about Andy. I've still had hard days, obviously, but the whole Andy thing is over. It's over and it's gone. And I jump in the air about it. I rejoice each morning and thank God that I'm still alive and have a chance to have a life. To have babies. To help people. To laugh. To go to the movie theater.
A week later I talked to my counselor on the phone before I went to bed. I was feeling a lot of anxiety about something or other. He was driving home from Salt Lake because his son was in the hospital in a bad way, up there. And he took the time to talk to me. He talked to me while I was scared and getting ready to sleep, at 12:30 AM, and made me feel better. And I slept well.
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Last week sometime I ran quickly down to the house of a boy I am dating, who lives in Provo, to pick up my cellphone, which had been sitting in his room for a full 24 hours. I forgot it the night before. I was mad for my text messages, thirsty for attention. I snatched up my phone, standing in the middle of this boy's room, and I viewed the nine tweets I had received, texts from Emily, Blair, etc, a few missed calls, one from my counselor, one from Sierra, and then clicked to read the first text listed at the top of the screen--from my counselor.
"I will not be able to make our appointment tomorrow," it said. Huh, I thought. That's weird.
"My son died yesterday from an infection that was 2 much 4 his weakened immune system," it continued. I put my hand over my mouth.
"We are very sad, but glad he is no longer hurting. I will call you next week to schedule an appointment. Call me if you get stuck, on my cell, or my home phone- ---/----."
I gasped. I buried my face in the neck of this guy I'm dating that I really don't know that well, who's nice enough, I guess, very good-looking. He's confused about my whole doctor-client relationship, so, I think he was just shutting up for a second.
I let out a couple of tears and called my counselor. I stood very still. I tried to keep my voice calm, I didn't want to be dramatic about it. He was probably having a time about it already. My heart got so big inside my ribcage. I wanted to do something. I wanted to hug him, to tell him what he meant to me, that I was so sorry he was hurting.
"Hai," he said. He always drags out the aaaah of the "hi". His hi sounded normal enough. As soon as he picked up I started to pace.
"Hello I just got your text message because my phone has been sitting at someone's house all day so that's why I didn't answer," I spewed out, doing a terrible job of covering up my emotion. Darn it.
"It's no problem. So, I'm assuming you got my text message about Sean?" he said quietly.
"Yes. And I know it doesn't do anything, but for what it's worth, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," my voice cracked.
"Are you crying?" he sounded legitimately surprised. And I haven't heard this man sound surprised very many times.
"Yeah..I mean, you're like...you're like my dad," I choked. And felt stupid for saying.
"Well," his voice got thicker. Echoier, more resonant. Teary. He cleared his throat, said it again.
"Well." cleared again. Unngh unngh ahem. I heard him composing himself for the first time. The tears ran warm and quick in two streams down my cheeks. I was standing in the bathroom, having paced there, and the tears ran down my face and hit the rug with soft plops below. This man saved my life and I wanted to reach out and I didn't know how. I didn't even know his son. So I cried and listened to him talk, as I am wont to do. He continued.
"There are some girls singing on Saturday at the funeral." he said.
"Will you sing?" I heard him swallow.
"It would mean a great deal to me".
We eight or so girls practiced at 8:30 AM the day of the funeral. My head was pounding from lack of sleep and I was terrified of when my emotions would come screaming out, because they hadn't yet, and I knew they would. Hell, I was still cracking jokes and we were surrounded by funeral flowers. I didn't even know his son. All of the other girls singing were cousins and friends. I felt awkward. I knew tears would come soon, but not when, and that made me antsy.
My counselor came into the chapel to hear us practice, in one of his customary bowties. He walked very quietly. I couldn't look at him. I knew if I did, the tears would start leaking, and my foundational one-person tenor part would suffer, and the song would suffer. So I didn't look at him.
When we sang in the actual service, I let my voice ring out. I didn't look at anything but my music. I went a little cross-eyed so as to make sure not to look anywhere, really. As we were finishing the last few measures of the song, with a pretty echoing descending trickling tenor/bass thing, I remembered my counselor sitting on the second row, and felt something start to tug at my heart. My throat trembled a little bit, leveled out, and I finished strong on the last note. Then, I started to cry. I cried for Sean. I cried for my counselor. I cried for the blessing of my life.
As we filed off the stage, I glanced upwards, my messy face finding my counselor's in the audience. He sat with his arm about his wife. He smiled radiantly at me, eyes brimming and shining with tears. Thank you, his face said.
You're welcome. And thanks for saving my life. And I love you, I said.
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Lee started to speak and choked and then what he wanted to say seemed good to say--to say carefully. He hovered over her. "You know, I haven't wished for many things in my life," he began. "I learned very early not to wish for things. Wishing just brought earned disappointment."
Abra said gaily, "But you wish for something now. What is it?"
He blurted out, "I wish you were my daughter--" He was shocked at himself. He went to the stove and turned out the gas under the teakettle, then lighted it again.
She said softly, "I wish you were my father."
He glanced quickly at her and away. "You do?"
"Yes, I do."
"Why?"
"Because I love you."
-East of Eden
So there I was, sitting droopily at my desk in a thermal gray camp shirt, fuzzy socks, and plaid pajama pants, and I took my spoon up to crack the first piece of melty Heath out of the top of the container. I had just changed out of my funeral clothes--an ill-fitting skirt and ruffly blouse. I had taken out my earrings, peeled off my contacts and replaced them with my glasses, and I sighed, hunchbacked with exhaustion, basically drooling, as I wearily watched the creamy little beads of oozing Heath pooling out of the air bubbles in the ice cream. You know when you're about to eat something and know that it will taste too good for the moment? Like, you're so emotionally and physically exhausted that taking a bite of that Ben and Jerry's will kick the last bit of tar right out of you and you will crawl like a robot to your bed and collapse?
Here's a piece of blindingly brilliant advice: Get more than three hours of sleep the night before a funeral. Especially a funeral that you're supposed to sing at. Especially a funeral that you have to show up for around 8:30 and leave at around 1:00. Especially a funeral that is a new kind of funereal situation for you, as far as funerals go. Especially when the funeral is for someone your age (TWENTY) who is the child of someone who has arguably been a better friend and parent figure to you than anyone ever has, ever. Especially when this parent person is one of those people who you feel like you've known for longer than you've been alive. And who's kept you alive.
My freshman year of college was scary. It was also fun, rewarding, hard, exciting, and I made a lot of close friends in my dorm. Beautiful amazing snappy girls who have changed my life. But, it was scary. It was scary that I developed anxiety. It was scary to leave high school, to leave the threadbare, easy comfort of Orem High behind, to go somewhere where homework was actually required, where people showered and went to bed on time, where I would live on a hall with 40 shining girls with eighteen talents apiece and clear ringing laughter and snowflake-cutting abilities like none I'd ever seen--when I was accustomed to hanging out with mostly boys, my family, Chelsea, people I had known for years.
Being on the hall got to be too much one day in November of 2007, the fifteenth, I think. I developed a composite itching symptom of too many frozen pizzas, a boyfriend that I was having trouble with, having no idea how to handle any of my classes, bad weather, perfection (or so I thought) all around me, many many spiritual doubts, and supreme anxiety. This whalloped me in the face, I had a nervous breakdown curled up in a ball and my mom dragged my non-responsive butt worriedly down way of the campus counseling center the next morning. They assigned me a counselor at random. Oh great now I was a crazy person. Great great great. I mean psychologist, I don't mean career or major counselor. I mean shrink. I walked into his office, plopped down, and stared drily at the wall behind him. I was wearing tannish sweats and a wrinkled t-shirt, I remember, and probably hadn't showered for a few days. I was sick of living for the first time in my life.
He's my friend.
I have an MP3 of that first session. It's remarkable to have a copy, an audio copy, of the first conversation I ever had with someone who has had such an impact on my life. Imagine if you had a copy of each of your first conversations with people that are important to you. Wouldn't that be the most fascinating thing to listen to? In this first conversation, he and I talked for 58 minutes about problems I had that make me smile at their silliness now. Obviously they weren't silly then, they were making me very upset, but now I listen to what I said and how I said it and what I was worrying about and who I was worrying about, and to how much younger I sounded, and how fake. I listen to how he sounded exactly the same that day as he does now, such a long time later. He's never really shown a ton of emotion. I wonder if when I grow up I'll sound the same over two-year periods.
I met with one of forty or so counselors, my counselor. I was assigned to him randomly. That first time we met we talked about neurotransmitters and I heard him use the word "lousy" for the first time and I laughed a lot. I remember he did this thing with his raised hand and crooked fingers when saying "lousy" that he still does, exactly the same. Same thing he does when he says "horse shit!". I explained that day that Talley's name was like tally mark with an e between the l and the y. We talked about Porsches. I lied a lot. He told me who Pavlov was. You can hear me changing positions on my couch about every forty seconds if you listen to the recording.
Since then, I've met with him about once a week pretty consistently. After a while I stopped lying to him because I realized I could trust him and that he seemed to understand me quite well. We got along pretty splendidly. We're coming up on two years of counselance. There have been little breaks in weekly attendance when I wasn't at school, or when one of us was on vacation. When I had mono I still hobbled, clutching my liver, down to campus weekly to see him. Once, when there was a fire drill, he said "nonsense!" about canceling the appointment and we simply paced around campus side by side for an hour. We went through a phase where he'd offer me a diet soda each time I came in and I'd usually take it. That was pretty recent. He drinks tons of diet soda. Once he was eating his lunch when I came in, but only once. He goes running a lot and he really loves his family. He has inkblot things all over his walls, and lots of plants that he waters. He laughs so loud. He is my friend. He has a little Honeymooners lunchbox on his couch that has Jolly Ranchers in it. I don't think I've ever actually eaten one. There've been a few times when I've gotten there late and stayed for just a few minutes, other times when I've stayed two hours, almost. People in training have sat in on sessions. I've cried, like, twice, ever, in front of him. Once was last month. He was very concerned and leaning forward in his chair when I was very upset. That day I went in to see him two different times, once before class, once after. It was a very awful day. I don't remember when the other time was that I cried.
Sometimes we talk about real problems, and sometimes we talk about me going to grad school, and sometimes we laugh our heads off, and sometimes I ask him awkwardly about his life, because I'd like to know about it, but I don't know if I'm supposed to ask questions like that.
When Andy and I broke up (each of the three times, but especially the last) I became very suicidal. Yes, you heard me. Legitimately suicidal. This blog will not go on to Brave Unbalanced for numerous reasons, one of them being that the whole world probably doesn't need to know about that.
So when Andy and I broke up, I kind of lost it. Nothing mattered to me. I didn't want the church, I didn't want Heavenly Father, I didn't want my family or friends or education or clothes or food, I just wanted Andy. Everything I thought about went straight to him, each dish I washed and step I took and each time I turned on my car, each person I talked to, each movie I watched, everything. Every time someone said something they thought about anything, an ugly little Andy voice snapped into the right side of my mind and denounced them harshly, reminding me why they were wrong and that he was much righter, and therefore, much more fulfilled. Everything I ate tasted like him, like the food he made me, like his morning breath or his beer breath or his just-ate-some-oreos breath, everything I smelled reeked of his detergent or his deodorant or his Garnier Fructis shampoo or his Rogaine foam or his semen. I'm not kidding you. It was hell. I would wake up in my own bed, confused, thinking I had been sleeping next to him moments earlier, and crouch into a ball in the corner and sob and sob and sob. Everywhere I went, in the same old blue sweater and my glasses, I was weeping uncontrollably or staring. Just staring. I had multiple blessings given to me, each of them amazing, but the pain was still fading and pulsing and hurting. For a few weeks, it was awful. I continued to check his disgusting blog because I was an idiot, reading the simpering things he wrote about women he met in bars, reading the stories in which he simultaneously tore me down to nothing and built me into his shining, angelic, untouchable ideal. He wrote about his repulsive familial love for and fascination with alcohol. He wrote about my bishop and my best friend and my mother, denouncing them all.
One day towards the end of the bad weeks, I checked his blog after promising myself I wouldn't. It was late afternoon. That day, Andy wrote something particularly tearing, and for some reason, I gave up. I was done. This person who had completely consumed my life was now calling me, and my life, ridiculous. He was calling me weak, calling me weak, calling me weak. He was moving in with another girl. He was moving in with another girl. Another girl would sleep in our bed with him. She would touch him. I was alone and directionless and ugly and worth nothing. I left the blog on the screen and scooted my desk chair backwards and let out a small, finalizing, agitated cry. I raked my hands through my hair and thought about how much I'd miss my family. I paced around my room for a good half hour, deciding how to kill myself. I felt a wild tenderness for Andy at that point. My vision got blurry. I looked it all up on the internet. I thought maybe I'd take a bunch of pills. Sure, I'd always wanted to go up the canyon and drive off the edge, but really, I wasn't going to do it. Much too messy and scary. I really sat here in this room I'm in right now, pulling my hair and roaring and walking around and getting ready. I grabbed a pillow and screamed and screamed and screamed shakingly into it so Jenny wouldn't hear me downstairs. I was so ready. I couldn't feel it any more. I really didn't want to try anymore. I was spiraling downwards, in a big black circle.
I remember glancing at the picture of the Savior on my wall, then out my dusty window, holding the pillow, and remembering that I guess I HAD promised my counselor I'd call him before killing myself, if I ever decided to. I paced a while, dismissing the thought, because I didn't want to make him feel bad, but once again, a few minutes later, someone calm in my brain goes call him, Julie. Call him. Just call him. Please. I figured I'd call him to say goodbye and tell him that I loved him and thanks for all the help, because of all the help he had given me, which was a ton. This was after about 1.5 hours of being determined to kill myself, too. I thought I'd probably miss him the most out of everyone I didn't get to see anymore if I died. I know a lot of people would miss me, and I'd miss them too, but he just kind of gets it. And he's like my dad. So I'd definitely miss him the most.
And I did call him. And he saved my life. Sounds trite, but I don't think there's really any other way to tell you that. He saved my life. One of the things he told me, among many, was that he'd miss me if I was gone. That meant a lot. He also sat with me on the phone while I read to him parts of Andy's blog that hurt me most, and explained to me why they were unreasonable and had nothing to do with my life, or my worth, anyway.
Later that night, I went to Emily's and hung out with her and Kyle, because I was still alive. The next morning, I woke up, and I said my morning prayers, because I was still alive. The next day I ate some cheesecake and hugged Lanee and drove with my windows down, because I was still alive. That Sunday, I went to church and ate dinner with my five-year-old cousin, because I was still alive. The following Monday, I squeezed my best friend's two-year-old in a big hug and told her I loved her, because I was still alive. This next year I will meet my birthmother, and become a senior in college, because I am still alive.
I still get to take hot showers and baths and sleep in on Saturdays and cuddle and listen to rain and have Christmas and a family and run fast down the hill to my car from campus and smell pumpkin things cooking and read books and write stories and wear high heels, because I am alive.
After that suicide day, after we talked, things got quite a bit better overall. I felt much better about Andy. I've still had hard days, obviously, but the whole Andy thing is over. It's over and it's gone. And I jump in the air about it. I rejoice each morning and thank God that I'm still alive and have a chance to have a life. To have babies. To help people. To laugh. To go to the movie theater.
A week later I talked to my counselor on the phone before I went to bed. I was feeling a lot of anxiety about something or other. He was driving home from Salt Lake because his son was in the hospital in a bad way, up there. And he took the time to talk to me. He talked to me while I was scared and getting ready to sleep, at 12:30 AM, and made me feel better. And I slept well.
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Last week sometime I ran quickly down to the house of a boy I am dating, who lives in Provo, to pick up my cellphone, which had been sitting in his room for a full 24 hours. I forgot it the night before. I was mad for my text messages, thirsty for attention. I snatched up my phone, standing in the middle of this boy's room, and I viewed the nine tweets I had received, texts from Emily, Blair, etc, a few missed calls, one from my counselor, one from Sierra, and then clicked to read the first text listed at the top of the screen--from my counselor.
"I will not be able to make our appointment tomorrow," it said. Huh, I thought. That's weird.
"My son died yesterday from an infection that was 2 much 4 his weakened immune system," it continued. I put my hand over my mouth.
"We are very sad, but glad he is no longer hurting. I will call you next week to schedule an appointment. Call me if you get stuck, on my cell, or my home phone- ---/----."
I gasped. I buried my face in the neck of this guy I'm dating that I really don't know that well, who's nice enough, I guess, very good-looking. He's confused about my whole doctor-client relationship, so, I think he was just shutting up for a second.
I let out a couple of tears and called my counselor. I stood very still. I tried to keep my voice calm, I didn't want to be dramatic about it. He was probably having a time about it already. My heart got so big inside my ribcage. I wanted to do something. I wanted to hug him, to tell him what he meant to me, that I was so sorry he was hurting.
"Hai," he said. He always drags out the aaaah of the "hi". His hi sounded normal enough. As soon as he picked up I started to pace.
"Hello I just got your text message because my phone has been sitting at someone's house all day so that's why I didn't answer," I spewed out, doing a terrible job of covering up my emotion. Darn it.
"It's no problem. So, I'm assuming you got my text message about Sean?" he said quietly.
"Yes. And I know it doesn't do anything, but for what it's worth, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," my voice cracked.
"Are you crying?" he sounded legitimately surprised. And I haven't heard this man sound surprised very many times.
"Yeah..I mean, you're like...you're like my dad," I choked. And felt stupid for saying.
"Well," his voice got thicker. Echoier, more resonant. Teary. He cleared his throat, said it again.
"Well." cleared again. Unngh unngh ahem. I heard him composing himself for the first time. The tears ran warm and quick in two streams down my cheeks. I was standing in the bathroom, having paced there, and the tears ran down my face and hit the rug with soft plops below. This man saved my life and I wanted to reach out and I didn't know how. I didn't even know his son. So I cried and listened to him talk, as I am wont to do. He continued.
"There are some girls singing on Saturday at the funeral." he said.
"Will you sing?" I heard him swallow.
"It would mean a great deal to me".
We eight or so girls practiced at 8:30 AM the day of the funeral. My head was pounding from lack of sleep and I was terrified of when my emotions would come screaming out, because they hadn't yet, and I knew they would. Hell, I was still cracking jokes and we were surrounded by funeral flowers. I didn't even know his son. All of the other girls singing were cousins and friends. I felt awkward. I knew tears would come soon, but not when, and that made me antsy.
My counselor came into the chapel to hear us practice, in one of his customary bowties. He walked very quietly. I couldn't look at him. I knew if I did, the tears would start leaking, and my foundational one-person tenor part would suffer, and the song would suffer. So I didn't look at him.
When we sang in the actual service, I let my voice ring out. I didn't look at anything but my music. I went a little cross-eyed so as to make sure not to look anywhere, really. As we were finishing the last few measures of the song, with a pretty echoing descending trickling tenor/bass thing, I remembered my counselor sitting on the second row, and felt something start to tug at my heart. My throat trembled a little bit, leveled out, and I finished strong on the last note. Then, I started to cry. I cried for Sean. I cried for my counselor. I cried for the blessing of my life.
As we filed off the stage, I glanced upwards, my messy face finding my counselor's in the audience. He sat with his arm about his wife. He smiled radiantly at me, eyes brimming and shining with tears. Thank you, his face said.
You're welcome. And thanks for saving my life. And I love you, I said.
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Lee started to speak and choked and then what he wanted to say seemed good to say--to say carefully. He hovered over her. "You know, I haven't wished for many things in my life," he began. "I learned very early not to wish for things. Wishing just brought earned disappointment."
Abra said gaily, "But you wish for something now. What is it?"
He blurted out, "I wish you were my daughter--" He was shocked at himself. He went to the stove and turned out the gas under the teakettle, then lighted it again.
She said softly, "I wish you were my father."
He glanced quickly at her and away. "You do?"
"Yes, I do."
"Why?"
"Because I love you."
-East of Eden