First things first
She tells me that there’s no point wasting my parents’
money if I don’t want to be there — won’t do anybody
any good.
If I don’t want to be there, I should leave,
because you can’t help someone who doesn’t
want to be helped.
She says that sometimes you have to hit rock bottom
before you can start going up again.
I know what she means.
I tell her that I want to be here,
can’t live like this much more.
I wasn’t planning to say that.
It just slipped out.
She must be good.
But
I still don’t say anything, waiting for her to give up and tell
me to go away like the school counsellor always did.
But she doesn’t.
She waits.
Suppose I’ll have to talk.
I ask her if she’ll tell my parents what I say.
‘No. What is said in this room stays in this room. But if you
tell me you’re going to go and do something that places
yourself or other people at risk, I’ll have to act on that.
Deal?’
I guess.
This woman must be crazy,
wanting to listen to my problems.
Wonder what she’s getting paid to do it?
Drug of choice? Life
I don’t tell Mum and Dad what we talked about,
even though I know they’re dying to find out.
Tim asks if I’m mentally stable yet,
and I thump him,
then grin.
Mum’s bought me a box of wax strips for my legs,
a peace offering I guess.
She shakes one out of the box,
rubs it between her hands,
and puts it on Dad’s chest ...then rips it off.
The scream brings the neighbours running.
But Mum, Tim and I grin like Cheshire cats.
I know
it’s a temporary high,
but it feels good.
That night we sit on the lounge room floor
watching telly,
eating pizza and drinking Coke.
That’s happened about two times in our house.
Mum and Dad are big on table manners and health food.
It feels good,
doing something so different and yet so normal.
After dinner,
I have a bath,
with heaps of bubbles.
I make bubblemen, sitting on the edge of the bath,
and give myself a Santa beard.
Then I sink into the steamy water,
and chill.
It feels so good, it should be illegal.
I’d forgotten
about natural highs.
Greetings
Jim knocks at the door
and Char’s dad answers.
Before he lets him in,
he gives Jim a warning.
‘Despite appearances,
Char isn’t better yet.
So, go gentle.
And if you hurt her,
you’ll rue the day.’
Holds her tight
Jim walks up the stairs,
knocks on the bathroom door.
He goes in,
takes off his clothes
and gets into the bath with Char.
Water splashes over the sides as they adjust themselves,
bodies settling against each other,
slippery as fish.
Eventually,
Jim sits with his legs straight out
and Char’s back rests on his stomach.
He holds her tight,
kisses her neck,
tenderly washes her hair with bubbles and water.
He’s clumsy at the hair washing,
not so good with long hair,
but he’s gentle.
He thinks about what his dad said.
And he holds her tight.
And then
Jim doesn’t sleep over
and I’m lying in bed, feeling
relaxed
sleepy
calm
peaceful
almost — good
when my phone beeps
with a message
from Guy.
In an instant
that feeling is gone.
I’ve basically done to Guy what Jim did to me.
The knot in my stomach is back.
With a vengeance.
What am I going to do now?
How can I tell Guy
that I had a bath with Jim?
That it didn’t mean anything?
That it meant everything?
At least,
I suppose,
I’ll have something to tell the shrink.
Biting the bullet
The next day
I visit Guy.
His mum looks at me with undisguised curiosity.
I vaguely wonder what Guy’s told her about me.
She’s about to show me baby photos of him
when he comes downstairs and tells his mum off,
tells her to leave me alone.
She likes me,
I can tell,
and I wonder how to tell her
that Guy’s probably going to hate me soon.
I don’t even know how to tell him.
Guy/I know she has bad news
I take her up to my room,
hug her,
kiss her,
but she pulls away.
I can tell
that she’s about to tell me something
that I’m not going to like.
My guts clench up
and my throat closes.
She’s looking scared.
I can tell she’s working herself up to it.
How bad can it be?
Suddenly
she blurts out,
‘Jim washed my hair.’
This must be some kind of sick joke.
Why would Jim be washing her hair?
Ohhhhhhhhh.
‘Last night, he came over, and I was in the bath, and he got in
the bath with me, and he washed my hair, but we didn’t have
sex or anything like that it wasn’t even remotely sexual it
was tender you know and that’s all he just washed my hair
and then he left and I went to bed and that’s what happened.’
‘Were you naked?’
I don’t want to know
but I have to.
It’s like watching a car crash in horrified fascination
but not being able to turn away.
She gives me a puzzled look.
‘Of course I was naked, I was having a bath.’
There’s a knife in my guts now.
I deal with it the only way I know how to as a man.
‘Slut.’
She’s started to cry now,
looking guilty,
and she reaches out to touch my cheek.
‘Don’t touch me, Char — just don’t.’
Then another thought jams into my head.
‘Did you kiss him?’
‘What?’
‘Did you kiss him?’
She doesn’t say anything, but the look on her face
tells me enough.
‘But it didn’t mean anything, honestly.’
‘Well I guess then neither did we.’
I must be a sick man,
getting pleasure out of the pain on her face,
knowing I’m making her feel as terrible as she’s
making me feel,
knowing that increasing her pain decreases mine.
‘Oh, Guy, I’m sorry.’
‘Go on, get out of here. Go back to Jim.
You two deserve each other.’
She hangs her
head, sniffles.
I can’t stand seeing her any more.
I want to wrap her into my arms and breathe in her scent
but
I also want to smack her against the wall for
making me feel this way.
And I’m scared I’ll do it soon.
I tell her to leave.
And this time
she does.
I’m walking home, crying,
thinking about what just happened,
thinking about what the shrink told me.
That someone can hold a gun to your head
but they can’t make you do anything.
You always choose how you behave.
She also said
that because of that
no one is responsible for how another person acts.
Although we can pressure them (which is wrong),
Guy chose to react the way he did.
If he goes nuts and hits something (which he might do
from that look in his eyes),
it’s not my fault.
Don’t believe everything you read
I’m on the internet,
doing random searches,
when I come across an interesting site.
It says that when people experience an emotion,
certain chemicals get released in their brain,
a different chemical for every emotion.
It says that people can get addicted to specific chemicals
so that they keep experiencing that emotion
to get the release of those chemicals
and that’s why some people are perpetually happy
and some people are always sad.
So I must be addicted to sad chemicals in my brain.
Uh-huh.
Yeah, right.
Seeing Jim
I see Jim at school the next day.
He’s got a split lip and a black eye
and he doesn’t want to tell me what happened
but I can guess.
When teachers ask him about it,
he says that I bashed him, that I did it.
I suppose that’s true in a way.
I’m just about to feel guilty
when I remember
he didn’t have to get in the bath with me,
he didn’t have to kiss me,
and he definitely didn’t have to cheat on me
in the first place.
I don’t think he deserved the shiner,
but it’s not really my fault.
Second time around
The next time I visit the shrink,
she tells me that she’s not giving me antidepressants
until I’ve tried a few other things first.
She tells me to concentrate on my diet —
‘For a month, only eat lots of really healthy food
and see how you feel.
And make sure you get plenty of sleep.
Cut down on your caffeine,’ she says, eyeing my Red Bull.
‘And do some enjoyable things —
hang out with your friends
do something for yourself that you haven’t done in a while.
Nurture your body.’
Yeah, right.
My body functions quite well on Maccas, grog and sleep.
I lie in bed that night,
hands on my stomach,
remembering what it felt like
to be pregnant.
The feeling is starting to fade and blur
but pieces remain.
Enough to convince me
that there’s a hole inside,
threatening to engulf the whole of me,
take me over and swallow me up.
Sometimes I think I’m nothing inside,
just a hole.
Sometimes I feel
so goddamn empty
I think I could scream, tear out my hair, fall to the ground,
but my mouth stays shut,
my hands stay obediently by my sides,
and my knees are locked rebelliously.
I keep walking.
Partially because I have to
and partially because I’m scared
of what will happen
if I stop.
Party girl
I get invited to a party on the weekend.
My parents don’t want me to go
now that they know I drink.
They don’t want me to go.
How fucked up is that?
I bitch to the shrink.
I tell her what I said to my parents —
‘Now you want to police me? It’s too late for that.’
She says that even though it’s hard to believe,
parents really do want the best for their children,
mine are probably worried about my safety,
not to mention my liver.
When she starts talking about parents and kids, I try to
keep my poker face on but I can’t.
She sees the twinge on my face
and tries to probe
but I clam up.
None of her goddamn business.
Power trip
I tell my parents I’m going,
whether they like it or not.
They threaten to lock me in my bedroom
so I don’t come home after school on Friday.
I go home with Bronwyn instead.
As we get ready, I explain to her
that I don’t really care whether or not I go to this party
but I am not letting my parents win this power struggle.
She understands.
If I had stayed home,
they would have won.
They ring my mobile
but I don’t answer.
At Bronwyn’s insistence I send them a text,
saying that I’m alive,
that I’ll be home in the morning.
My father leaves a message on my voicemail
telling me that if that’s my attitude
not to come home at all.
And then about half an hour later
he rings back
and says that, of course, he didn’t mean it,
that he wants me to come home.
Of course he does.
I’ll have to stay out tomorrow night as well.
Just to keep him guessing.
Hello, Jim
Bronwyn and I stick together at the party.
We’re drinking cocktails that other people
are making for us,
with not a worry about what’s in them.
As long as they’ve got plenty of grog, they’re fine with us.
When I’m starting to feel more than mildly drunk,
a bunch of guys that none of us knows shows up.
Apparently they’re someone’s cousin’s friends.
They seem friendly enough,
and they’ve brought more alcohol
so they’re allowed to stay.
One of the guys takes a liking to Bronwyn,
and he and his friends come to sit by us.
The one wearing a cap is about to chat me up
when Jim comes over, drink in each hand,
and says, ‘Here’s your drink, babe.’
As he kisses me quickly on the lips,
I give Bronwyn a look.
The don’t-say-anything-and-play-along look.
I’m glad he’s come over.
He puts his arm around me and gives me a squeeze.
And the guy with the cap goes off in search of another girl.
Just another drunk girl at a party
Bronwyn is drinking like her usual self.
A few drinks here, a few there.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen her have more than
ten drinks in a session.
But she drinks everything New Guy hands to her.
Suddenly
she clutches at New Guy’s hand
and whimpers,
‘I don’t feel so good.’
She leans forward,
retches,
and vomits, continuously, for the next five minutes.
No friend of mine
New Guy says he’s going to take her home,
put her to bed,
but I childishly insist that she’s my friend
and wherever she goes, so do I.
Bronwyn isn’t looking so good.
She’s pale and miserable.
New Guy is insistent on taking her with him.
I tell him to fuck off,
he got her drunk in the first place.
I would let him take her,
but there’s a funny look in Bronwyn’s eyes.
I don’t even know this guy,
and there’s a funny look in his.
He tries to pick her up and take her
but Jim and I stand in front of her.
Eventually, he leaves.
I’ve seen Bronwyn drunk a lot of times
and right now she’s acting like just another drunk girl.
She grabs at Jim and says, ‘Jim, I feel really sick.’
He laughs,
pats her hand,
takes another swig of rum,
and says, ‘Well, you’re drunk, so no wonder.’
No one pays her much attention.
Just another drunk girl spewing at a party.
Even when she passes out
we don’t worry too much.
We make sure she can breathe OK
and leave her be.
Hell, who hasn’t passed out from drinking before?
We’ve all done it.
She’ll be fine, we know,
so we keep on drinking.
Eventually, we’re ready for bed.
I go to get Bronwyn up.
She can’t sleep on the grass all night.
She stands up,
passes out,
and won’t wake up.
Jim calls the ambulance.
It seems to take forever but it’s probably only a
What Does Blue Feel Like? Page 9
