He grabs my hand in his and pulls gently, "Will you?"
That's a loaded question, but I answer him honestly, "Yeah, I will."
He presses a long kiss to my forehead and then to my cheek, then to the corner of my mouth.
"I'm gonna fucking miss you,” he says and then turns and enters the vehicle.
I walk home alone and realize how empty this place already feels without them. I pick up a bottle of vodka on the way home and toast to Blood Feather.
I cry an hour into it, because I miss them. I know I have to get my shit together while they're gone and prove myself. I have to put my life back together, or perhaps start living life for the first time.
Chapter Eight
I step into Dr. Webster’s office fifteen minutes before my appointment and fill out a mountain of paperwork. I had this idea in my head that a psychologist’s office would be filled with framed Rorschach blot pictures and other patients with various degrees of distress. I dreamed last night the waiting room had exactly four other people waiting when I arrived. One was a man in a straitjacket, rocking back and forth and speaking nonsense. The second was a woman who was silently crying, black mascara streaks marring her face. The third was a man who paced back and forth in the office speaking to no one in particular about governmental conspiracy theories. The fourth was my mother who sat across the waiting room with a warm smile on her face. She patted the seat beside her, and when I sat, she grabbed my hand and held it in hers. She stared straight ahead as I waited for my appointment. She’d been waiting on me. Mom didn’t say a word to me the entire time until I was called to the back by a nurse.
“This is where you start, darling,” she smiled up at me as I stood.
I leaned down and hugged her, taking in her smell. It’s been so many years since she passed that I forgot the way she smelled. She smelled like home and comfort.
I realized this morning when I woke that I haven’t dreamt of her in years. I also haven’t had the nightmares of the night my stepfather came into my room for years. I’m not really sure I dreamt at all for the last five or six years. The dream of Dr. Webster’s waiting room was the first I remember in quite a while.
I completed several evaluations about myself, rating how I interact with others and feel in different situations. Dr. Webster meets me at her lobby door and escorts me to her office. She was a woman who appears to be in her fifties, short brown hair graying, and an eclectic collection of abnormal psychology books on the shelves surrounding her office.
“What brings you to my office today, Noely?” she asks.
I’d thought of the answer to this question for the week before I made the appointment and the two weeks following, in which I had to wait for today, “I don’t know who I am.”
She chuckles slightly, “I’m assuming you aren’t referring to an amnesiac issue.”
I smile at her statement, “No. I don’t know who I am. I’ve played the parts I’ve been given or felt I had to play for so long, that I don’t know who I am. I don’t know who I really am.”
She nods her head, “You’re quite young for mid-life crisis.”
“I know. I don’t think I’m experiencing an early mid-life crisis though. I think I’m waking up.”
My response surprises me, and with a few moments to process my words, I agree with my self-evaluation.
For forty-five minutes, Dr. Webster and I speak about my mother, my childhood, my father, my mother’s death, and the eight months I spent alone with my stepfather. I tell her about Johnny, Jimmy, Rich, and Ryan. I include their families and what life was like for me from the age of twelve until now.
“You have a severe amount of anxiety,” she observes. “Part of this is easily linked to your father’s sudden abandonment. Your stepfather’s personality made you nervous, which caused you to be in a constant state of fear and that produced anxiety. Your mother’s death threw you into a state of chaos and confusion. You stated you felt like an orphan, and Noely you’re right. You have anxieties over abandonment, which is why your friends leaving on this tour has affected you the way it has. You feel abandoned. You’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak, with the people in your life. Abandonment is at the core of your anxieties. You played the part you thought everyone expected you to play. You didn’t rebel as a teenager. You’ve never acted out. You’ve kept all of this anxiety inside and you’ve been so eager to please everyone in your life and to keep them in your life so you always did what you could to please them the most.
You’re fears over going into foster care were valid, but it created this monster inside of your brain that makes you need to feel needed, but contradictorily it makes you afraid to need. Feeling needed by the people who in your mind, rescued you as a child makes you feel worthy and secure. Yet, you still fear that if you act out, disagree, or pursue anything on your own they will abandon you. From what you’ve told me about your relatively adopted family members, I do not foresee them abandoning you for being you. From what you’ve told me, your constructed family structure is filled with artists, creative minds, social anarchists, and those that live on the fringe of what society may deem as unacceptable. They make no qualms about who they are, and I don’t think they would want you to do that.”
“That makes sense,” I chuckle. “So I’m my own worst enemy?”
“Essentially, your anxiety and fear of abandonment are your biggest demons. They are the root of all the troubles you’re having. I think your friends leaving on the tour was what you needed. Their absence will give you some time to discover yourself without feeling as though you may be judged by them. That doesn’t mean they will judge you, but you will fear their judgment and subsequent abandonment.”
“I agree. I spend a great deal of time with the guys, so their absences would allow me time to work through some of these issues without their looming presences,” I respond.
“We only have a few more moments together today, but I’d like to discuss your evaluations. As I look through your answers I find that you don't have a personality type."
“I what?” I ask with raised eyebrows.
“I’m not saying you don’t have a personality, dear. You’ve just always been who everyone else wanted you to be. You were correct when you said you didn’t know who you are. So, our goal has to be to find you. Who is Noely inside? What does she like or dislike? How is she going to use her words to express her true feelings to other people, especially the ones she loves?”
“I’ve asked myself some very similar questions,” I admit.
“I’d like you to make an appointment for next week, and in the meantime, use the time between visits to create a list of goals for yourself.”
I leave her office with several suggestions for self-discovery books, and I walk to the local bookstore and purchase every single one of them. I sit in the nearby park and think about my goals. I think about the things I often held inside out of fear for vocalizing my true feelings.
For the next three days, I crafted my goals and it was therapeutic. I tried to imagine what the Noely who stuck to her goals would look like. How would she feel? Would she feel at peace, free from her past, and unrestricted to be whoever she really was? Would she be able to be so much like Johnny, Jimmy, Rich, and Ryan, who told the world to fuck off if they didn’t like what they saw. I’d like to be more like that, but first I have to find who is inside.
1. Don't be afraid to say no.
2. Do something because I want to.
3. Stop agreeing to do things because that's what the crowd wants. I can say I don't want to eat somewhere or decline to go to a certain bar.
4. It's okay to spend time by myself. What do I like to do? I like to paint, read, and work. I need hobbies that aren't linked to work. I should take up yoga and gym. Exercising is supposed to help people feel better and it boosts self-esteem and positive body image. Yoga could help me feel more centered. I want to volunteer at the local animal shelter on
ce a week. It makes me happy to work with animals.
5. I can be angry that my father abandoned me and my mother when I was eight. I can be pissed that he made a new family, and wouldn't take me in when my mother died. I can be angry that my stepfather treated me like an afterthought and attempted to molest me.
6. I don't have to feel ashamed that I am an orphan. I'm a survivor and I should always be proud of that. I should embrace the fact that I stayed out of the system, graduated high school, and obtained a college degree.
7. I'm beautiful and I should never feel that my past lessens my inner or outer beauty. I shouldn't feel like I'm damaged goods. I'm a survivor and I'm strong.
8. I have to remember to take time to relax and when negative thoughts enter my mind, I need to deal with them instead of tucking them away. Never stop self-reflecting.
9. I want to laugh more. I'll watch more comedy on Netflix and attend some comedy shows at a club nearby. Internally, I have all this sarcasm and amazing wit that I’m often afraid to share with others. I want to embrace my humor instead of hiding behind my fear of being me.
10. I don’t want to be afraid of what people think of me so much. I’d like to be free from that burden. I want to tell perfect strangers or even the people I love to “fuck off”.
It felt good to tell Sheila the truth about how I felt. It felt great to send that company-wide email telling the truth. I dropped my mask. I didn’t hold back the thoughts in my head and it’s the first time I remember feeling so free in my life. I need this on a daily basis. I need this to become ingrained into the fiber of my being.
Chapter Nine
The first thing I do is sign up for a yoga class at my local gym. Who would’ve ever thought yoga was so hard? In the week between appointments, I reflect deeply on the way I feel. It doesn’t take long for the guilt to set in about my friend’s and their families who gave up so much to take care of me. They didn’t make me become the shell of a person that I am, I did that. My circumstances didn’t help my fears, but I’m twenty-six and the root of most my anxieties can’t hurt me anymore.
I Skype with the guys each night and get a chance to talk to each of them with the exception of Johnny. I don’t ask to speak to him, I never see him in the background, and I never hear him. The only time I heard from him in the last two last weeks is last Sunday night. He sent a text.
Johnny: I miss you. You should be here with us.
Me: I miss you guys too. I hope you’re having the time of your life and making beautiful music every night. I’m so proud of you all.
I never heard from him again. But in my phone calls to the guys, I laugh freely and tell them everything that’s going on with me while they update me about life on the road. Part of me wishes I was there with them too. I’ve been with the band since the beginning of their formation, but I know I need this time away from them to find myself. I’ve said as much to them, and after several long emails, texts, and phone calls, they each understand and encourage me to grab the bull by the horns. I hope at least one of them tells Johnny about what is going on with me. I want him to know I’m okay, and that I took a left turn in life. I made that decision on my own. I want him to be proud of my new path of self-discovery. I want him to know that I’m taking charge of my own life for once and that I don’t need to be saved anymore.
At my second appointment with Dr. Webster, she relays how happy she is with sharing my journey with my friends. She’s beyond excited when I tell her how happy and encouraging they are with me. I leave her office smiling and with a new assignment to make a bucket list. The good doctor told me nothing was too big or small, silly or serious to put on the list. I make an appointment for three weeks later to update her on my progress.
A week later, I find myself in front of a tattoo shop owned by one of Jimmy’s friends. I’ve never gotten a tattoo before because I didn’t know what I wanted. To mark my body permanently, the art had to be deep and representative of me. I watched a documentary on one of my favorite artists, famed street graffiti artist Banksy, and I knew immediately that my first tattoo would be about his work. He’s managed to tag cities all over the world anonymously. He hides behind a mask in a way, but he controls it. He chooses to hide behind a mask and still share his art with the world at the same time. Banksy always incorporates a political or social message into his artwork that touches something deep inside of me.
I read a quote from him, “You live in the city and all the time there are signs telling you what to do and billboards trying to sell you something.” I don’t want to be told what to do anymore. I’m not buying anymore. The quote combined with his social anarchy messages made me realize at least someone out there is okay with me finding myself and telling everyone who has a problem with it to fuck off.
I step into the tattoo shop and am struck with a gorgeous purple-haired girl who looks like she woke up in the wrong era. She’s dressed in pinup style clothing and is tattooed everywhere. Her nose, lip, and eyebrow are pierced. She’s a knockout. I realize how empty my life has really been when I look at her. She shines so brightly. She isn’t the picture of corporate America my professors showed me. She isn’t the epitome of the college-educated woman working her way up the ladder in suits, but she’s fucking beautiful. I instantly realize I want to shine as brightly as her. I want to be that beautiful in my own way.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“Sorry. Yeah. I’m Noely King. I have a consultation appointment with Carmine,” I tell her still a little in awe of her beauty.
“Cool. I’m Sabrina. I spoke to you on the phone when you set it up,” she says. She looks down at the papers clutched in my hand. “Are those for Carmine?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“Can I see them?” she asks out of curiosity.
I step to the counter that she sits behind and hand her the Banksy pieces I carefully chose.
“Rock on. I fucking love Banksy!” she says with excitement. “Car!”
She’s still smiling down at my papers when a fucking man, a real man, steps from behind a curtain.
“Yeah?” he asks.
He steps over to see what Sabrina is looking at and then his eyes finally settle on me. He takes his time looking me up and down. It makes me want to squirm on the spot, but I offer a small smile instead in hopes he doesn’t realize how much his gaze unnerves me.
“Banksy?” he asks.
“He’s one of my favorite artists,” I reply.
“I like the pieces you chose,” he continues to stare on at me with intensity.
“Where do you want to put it?” he asks.
“I’d like to put the pieces together to make a sleeve for my right arm. I was thinking we could use distressed looking brick for filler between the pieces.”
“Holy shit! That’s fucking amazeballs!” Sabrina says. “I haven’t seen an idea this great in a while.”
Carmine shoots me a sly smile, “We get a lot of YOLO shit these days.”
I chuckle, “I’m going through the process of YOLO now. This isn’t one of those pieces, though.”
He nods at my assurance, “No. You put a lot of thought into this.”
“I wanted to see where you thought about placing each of the pieces,” I advise and he looks down to my waist and hips.
Maybe I shouldn’t let this guy tattoo me.
“Let’s take them back to my station and we’ll see what we can piece together,” he says.
I’m reluctant to follow him and be alone with him and all that man hotness. Sabrina walks from behind the front counter, laces her arm through mine, and escorts me back to Carmine.
She leans over and whispers, “From what I hear, he doesn’t bite… hard.”
I snort in laughter, “I think you’re the coolest chick I’ve ever met.”
“You’re very perceptive,” she says. “We should be friends. Any bitch who brings in Banksy for a full-arm sleeve instantly wins my heart over.”
“Yep. We were meant to be friends.”
I notice a moment later she has the Banksy Anarchist Rat on her forearm. Maybe she’s right. Maybe we should hang out.
“What are you doing back here?” Carmine asks Sabrina gruffly.
“Escorting my new best friend.”
Carmine looks unimpressed.
“How many tattoos do you have?” he asks me.
“Um… none?” I respond with embarrassment.
They both look at me with shock.
“You want your first tattoo to be a full sleeve?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation.
“Right on!” Sabrina yelps.
“You must be one bad ass bitch to want this, and maybe a little insane to be friends with Jimmy,” Carmine winks at me.
Jesus, my cheeks feel hot. It just got hot in here.
“Jimmy is my partner-in-crime,” I tell him.
“Then you are insane,” he laughs.
“Aren’t we all?” I wink at him.
He cocks his eyebrow at my wink, and I hold in the moan I’d like to make.
“I had a cancellation today. Do you want to start on the upper arm?” he asks.
“Fuckin’ A, she does,” Sabrina answers for me.
I almost cave in because Sabrina wants me to get the tattoo today and she’s so excited for me. But then I realize the reason I don’t want to give in is because I didn’t plan to get tattooed today. I wanted to make an appointment and plan. I’m not sure how one plans for a tattoo, but I’ve always been a planner. So I throw caution to the wind and let the new Noely make the decision for me.
“Let’s do it,” I smile so proud of myself for doing something against the grain and because I fucking want to.
They both seem excited by the prospect, and Sabrina and I hang out in the main area of the shop as Carmine assembles the pieces for my upper arm. I strike up a conversation about her piercings and the more I look at her nose piercing, the more I realize I want one. So, while Carmine continues to sketch up the tattoo, Sabrina pierces my nose.
Under the Cornerstone Page 6
