Fighting Wrath

by Jennifer Miller

  “I think the best thing for us to do is to continue to meet every other week right now. Dr. Fremont suggested the same therapy frequency. How do you feel about that?”

  “That’s fine,” I agree. I know this isn’t going to be a quick fix. Even though I graduated from the program, the need for ongoing counseling and therapy exists and if I want to fully recover, I must continue my treatment. Perhaps some people choose otherwise, but to me it’s not an option. It took years for me to get to where I am, to learn this behavior and try to bury these emotions. I recognize that it’s going to take time to come out of this on the other end.

  Dr. Zenn and I schedule my next appointment and I leave. Walking to my truck, I feel somewhat at a loss. I want to go find Sydney. I want to beg her to forgive me, to explain, to tell her that I love her no matter where she works and that of course I understand that sometimes sacrifices are made to take care of our loved ones, to protect them any way we can. I was an unbelievable ass, and while I won’t lie and tell her it will be easy and I’ll always have this under control, or that I am okay with her stripping, I want us to work together to make a life for ourselves, to figure out how we can move forward – together. Trying to vanquish the negative internal dialogue that immediately comes to my mind, as I’ve been taught, I tell myself instead that it’s all possible. God, I hope that she wants that too.

  I decide the best thing to do is to go to the gym. Exercise is part of my therapeutic treatment plan – and one remedy I am happy to include. I can’t help but notice how quiet it is when I arrive. I decide to swing by the office to see if Jax is here first. We had a tough conversation the day I returned about my underground fighting. He was definitely upset with my choices and was pissed that I put my body and his time and money at risk. I certainly understand his feelings and told him I’d understand if he wanted to drop me as a fighter. Instead, his reaction was the exact opposite and we came up with an intense training program to expedite getting me in the ring professionally. The thing is, fighting as a sport is something that I love. I’m good at it, and I don’t want to give it up. Getting back into training, as part of and in combination with my other therapy, will be a true benefit and not merely something that I enjoy. . Going forward, though, fighting is merely to be revered as the sport it is and which I enjoy. Hopefully I can make some money at it, the right way. Three months at the Center have helped it to be no more significant than that. The issues that sparked my addiction to fighting have been resolved, and now I see it as a healthy sport. Dealing with those old demons in a supportive, healthy environment has made all the difference.

  “Hey, Jax, how’s it going?”

  “Tyson, hey. Did we have a training session that I forgot about?” He immediately pulls out a book that must be a planner and starts rifling through the pages.

  “No, I just thought I’d come by and work out.”

  “Oh,” he drops the book. “Okay. Help yourself. You doing alright, man?”

  “Yeah,” I nod. “I’m good.”

  I head to my locker, put my stuff away, change and then start with the treadmill and run for a few miles to warm up. When I turn to go knock some punches out on a bag, I see a familiar face.

  “Ryder, how are you man?”

  “I’m good. How are you?” I have no doubt that Jax told him, maybe all of the guys, what went down. I can see the concern and curiosity in his look, and I don’t mind. It’s cool to know that these guys really are my friends. And care.

  “Doing a lot better, man, thanks.”

  “Feel like sparring?”

  “Sure. I’d like that.”

  We knock out a few rounds together and I can’t help notice the whole time Ryder seems distracted. I wonder if he has something on his mind but decide to see if he chooses to talk about whatever it is. When he misses an easy jab and it makes contact instead of being blocked, enough is enough. His mind isn’t in this and I don’t want him to get hurt. “Alright, spit it out.”

  It takes a minute for him to focus on me, “What’s that?”

  “You’ve got something on your mind.”

  He sighs and his arms drop to his side as his stance relaxes and I do the same. He puts his back to the cage and stares off into the distance and I remain patient. “I’ve been trying to decide if I should say anything and how much I should say to you. It isn’t my thing to butt my nose into other people’s business.” I nod but remain silent. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m here for you,” he sighs and laughs sharply. “I don’t do this whole emotion sharing shit, dude, but something that I don’t share much is that I know exactly what it feels like to have something eat at you so much and so hard that you become someone you don’t want to be, someone that you don’t even like, in order to just get through every single day. I’ve gotten to the point where fighting against the devil on my shoulder has become too exhausting and we’re just both on the same side now.”

  Speechless, I look at him not sure how to respond. He avoids my gaze and looks down at the mat, so I look away, not wanting to add to his discomfort. “We are all dealing with hell in some way. Our hells may not be the same, and we may deal with it differently and even be at opposite points in choosing to deal with it, but we all have stuff – I mean I guess that’s life. And I’m not meaning to sound like I’m minimizing it; the stuff can be pretty nasty. I hope that you’re at the tail end of your hell, man and I guess what I’m trying but failing to say is that, if you need me, I’m here for you, okay? I understand more than you know.”

  “Thanks,” I tell him gruffly knowing that no other words are needed. He straightens and walks to the center of the cage ready to spar once more. “If you ever need to talk to someone, I’m here for you too.”

  “God dude, are you wearing girly panties today too? Enough of this girly shit. Let’s fight,” he jokes, but I get the feeling that my response is exactly what he needed to hear.

  Now, if only talking to Sydney could be this easy.

  I’ve done nothing – at least nothing meaningful – but think about Tyson these last few days. My mind is saturated with thoughts of him. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing, thoughts of him are always there. I reflect on my surprise at seeing him at the book store. While my ears knew that was his voice, my mind did not allow my heart to believe it could really be him initially. I felt like I stared at him like some wide-eyed doe. And what did he really think would happen? Did he think that telling that silly story would be enough to make me swoon and beg him to take me right then and there? Did he think that we would just pick up where we left off and all would be okay? How could he be so insensitive? He was gone for a hundred days. A hundred!

  Work has been awful. I thought maybe it would be a welcome distractor, but no. Ever since everything happened with Tyson and after going to therapy, I cannot bring myself to obtain even a moment of enjoyment or satisfaction from my work. Okay, other than Rena occasionally, but those interactions are few and far between. Truth is, I can’t get my head in it at all. The place seems polluted - the low lights, the smokiness, the come-ons. Things that never bothered me now bring irritation. And every interaction feels sullied. Every dance, dirty. Every cat-call, smutty. I feel dishonest and actually unclean. Instead of gaining peace of mind, and focusing on why I’m there in the first place, I keep thinking about all the other things I could try to do- and may be great at.

  And I miss him. And I wonder if he is okay. And now that I know a little of where he was, I wonder what is was like for him, what he learned and how he feels and…the list goes on.

  So what’s my hang-up? The biggest issue is that I’m not sure I can forgive him for just walking away. He wouldn’t and didn’t listen to me; he just got insanely crazy and ultimately walked away. I understand that he may have merely been reactive, even a bit hasty or temperamental. I get that maybe he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to listen at the time. But couldn’t he have done so before he chose to just pack his bags and leave? I mean, he could have shown a bit of r
espect for me. For my feelings. He could have been a bit more thoughtful about me. But no, he made a decision to leave quickly and did so before he could think twice. And how he could go three months without contact? How could he possibly think that that was okay? Three months without an apology. Even if I told him to leave me alone until he got his shit together. Did he think I meant to just leave me?

  He left me. Alone. Abandoned. And who is to say that he won’t just do it again someday. It frightens me – to my core that I will be left again. And I’m not sure I can survive that. It hurts too much. I am so conflicted. So torn. Here, I thought I was getting my own shit together. Thought I was doing so well. Where is that new found confidence? My ability to think through things and make a clear-headed, unemotional decision that is best for me? The heart wants what the heart wants. And, perhaps, the mind is not too far behind.

  Needing the day to myself, I called off of work so I can spend some much needed time with Sammy. In the midst of this turmoil, time with him gives me peace. When the rest of the world and my role and purpose and next steps in other things are confounding, my role and life with Sammy seems clear. It’s not like Tyson is absent when I see Sammy. Because, even though it’s been a long time since he’s seen him, , Sammy still remembers meeting Tyson and has asked me every visit where he is. Today is likely not to be an exception.

  “Where’s your friend, Sybney?” The first question he asks his head tilted to the side, big eyes shining after we finalize our routine small talk. He has his favorite ball cap on as always and his blonde hair sticks out from under it in every direction.

  “He’s not here today,” I reply smiling at him even though my heart is aching. “Come sit next to me,” I invite, patting the seat next to me.

  “Maybe another time?” He asks sitting down.

  “Yes, maybe next time,” I answer putting my head on his shoulder and laughing when he pats it awkwardly.

  “Sybney sad?”

  “No, I’m okay. I’m always okay when I’m with you. Do you want to play a game or something today?”

  “No. We watch TV okay?”

  “Okay, Sammy. Can I find something to watch?” I ask and take the remote from his hand when he nods yes. I flip hurriedly through the channels to see if any of his favorite shows are on. When baseball games aren’t being televised, he likes to watch various cartoons.

  “Oh! Oh my!” he says suddenly and I stop the channels thinking I must have missed something he likes. When I see the men fighting on the screen, I quickly change the channel.

  “No!” he cries “go back!”

  I turn the channel back and cringe at the fighting men on the screen. “Sammy, we don’t need to watch this.”

  “Fighting, like us, fighting,” he points at the TV and something inside of me stands at attention. Not once since his attack has he said anything about what happened to him. No reference, nothing. I haven’t even thought that he remembered. Watching him closely as he intensely observes the screen, I worry he may be afraid even though his face doesn’t convey it.

  “Sammy, it’s okay, it’s just on TV. No one is going to hurt you,” I say gently not sure what is going through his mind.

  Turning from the TV his eyes meet mine and something seems different; feels different in his look. His hands come up and touch his neck and my breath catches in my throat, my chest tightening at the gesture. “Daddy did,” he says. “Daddy hurt me.”

  “Yes,” I say, barely able to choke the word out. I am clueless. Ill-prepared. I have no idea what the right thing is to say or do. “I’m so sorry, Sammy. I’m so sorry he hurt you. I’m so sorry I froze and didn’t stop him.” Feelings, words, thoughts that I’ve been wishing to say to him for years come forth while the strength of my feelings are so intense, I feel like I can barely breathe. Silent tears fall from my eyes as I watch him closely, afraid to move, afraid to speak, afraid to lose whatever this is that’s happening between us.

  Reaching his hand out, he pats my arm. “Sammy okay,” he shrugs, “I okay.” As I watch him he moves closer to me, wraps his arms around me and squeezes, “I lub you Sybney. It’s okay.”

  In that moment, I have clarity I’ve never had before. My brother, my big brother, has been present and still teaching me things all along. He’s the epitome of bravery. When he woke from his coma, he had to relearn so many things, simple everyday behaviors stripped from him, simple actions required so much work. He never got frustrated, never gave up and somehow through all of it, in his own mind he’s managed to forgive a man for doing something reprehensible. He’s had peace all along while I’ve struggled to find my own. He’s been able to do something that I haven’t. What was done to Sammy was so utterly wrong and heinous, but in this moment, I have no doubt that he remembers what happened to him, and somehow he’s still able to forgive.

  And then it engulfs me. Forgiveness truly is divine and if Sammy can forgive something that was done to him that was so horrendous, so vile, how could I possibly continue to be angry at Tyson? How long am I going to hold him accountable? Why would I allow my fears and pride to stand in the way? All I’m doing is holding both of us hostage. Instead, I want to forgive him, forgive myself and open my heart up to more miracles and new possibilities. I want to be a woman who shows mercy and loves well. Who am I to withhold pardon when I myself have been in need of and received such absolution?

  Sammy and I continue to hold each other and I talk to him. I talk to him like I haven’t since his accident. I talk to him like I used to. I tell him how I’m trying to get myself through school. I tell him about my apartment that he’s never even seen and tell him about Rena’s latest boyfriends. I talk to him about Tyson and how much I love him and never saw him coming, and am so happy I bumped into him that day at the bookstore. I tell him how sometimes I’m scared, so scared that I’m messing up my life and feel like I have no clue half the time what I’m doing. I share that I feel alone at times, and lonely, and Tyson helped fill that open space Sammy left in a way I never expected.

  Through it all, Sammy listens intently and I swear he understands on some level. He may not reply the way he used to or offer advice, but something between us changes. A piece of the old us that’s been missing, settles back into place and the contentment and connectedness for both of us is obvious.

  When it’s time for me to leave, Sammy hugs me tight, and in his own way, gives me that big brother advice after all. “Sybney go see Tyson now.”

  And that’s what I do.

  I can’t get to his place fast enough and I hope against hope that he’s there. When I arrive, I knock –sort of pound- on the door and when there is no answer, I sit on the stoop for a half hour or so before admitting defeat and return to my place.

  Frustrated and unsure of where to locate him, I slowly and begrudgingly walk up to my apartment. I consider getting back into my car and driving until I find him. Other possible locations come to mind - Rowan’s, the bookstore, the gym – I dismiss them, not wanting to have an audience. Pulling my phone out, I consider doing the next best thing as I scroll to Tyson’s name and begin to text him. Reaching my door, looking up from my phone, I immediately stop when I see Tyson sitting against it, head in his hands, back against the door.

  Tyson looks up and we stare, silently at each other while he stands. Unable to hold it in any longer, I do what I wish I had done the second I saw him a few days ago, I run and leap into his arms. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so, sorry,” I tell him over and over burying my face into his neck.

  “No, no,” he insists, “I’m sorry. Oh god, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I’m sorry I went nuts, I’m sorry I left, I didn’t mean to hurt you even more. I just wanted to get better. For me. And for you, too.”

  Taking my face out of his neck, my eyes meet his and without waiting another moment, I slam my mouth down on his. I kiss him like I’ve never kissed him before. I clutch handfuls of his hair, I move my mouth against his and thrust my tongue into his mouth as soon as I have an opening.
I take control, and I love it. When I take my mouth away from his, we stare into each other’s arms breathing heavily.

  “Let’s go inside, I’d like to talk to you,” he suggests and I nod, sliding down his body so I can unlock my door.

  We situate ourselves on the couch and sit closely. He takes my hands in his and tells me what happened when he left. He tells me where he went and why. Then he fills in the missing pieces, “I didn’t mean to lie to you about fighting. When I told you I wouldn’t fight any longer, I meant it. But then Eli called and asked me to please fight just one more time. He didn’t have time to find someone else and a fight had been lined up that night. I didn’t want to, my heart wasn’t even in it, but I told him I would. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too. I should have told you that I’m a stripper, but I was scared. I knew that you wouldn’t like it and just like I was afraid to tell you about Sammy, I was afraid to tell you about that too because I didn’t want to lose you. I kept making excuses and telling myself I would tell you soon. I hate that you found out the way you did, and I wish I could go back and make things right.” I tell him about my own revelations I’ve had over while he was away. I share the insights I’ve gained through therapy – about me and about him and that I am also healing and becoming healthier and I even share a few of my dreams for the future.

  “I’m not going to lie to you, I don’t like the fact that you take your clothes off in front of other men. That is not going to be easy for me. But, it’s not bigger than us. It’s not a deal breaker for me.”

  “Thank you for saying that, but the truth is, I don’t want to do it anymore. I’m going to pursue some other options. My therapist even told me about a couple state grants that I hadn’t heard of before. Since I put Sammy at his home, some laws have changed and I may be able to get some help I didn’t even know existed.”