Welcome to My World

by Curtis Bunn

  “Church has its benefits and I sho-nuff believe in praying to God. He has carried me through some things. But when you’re talking a mental issue, we have to seek therapy, Rodney.

  “I want you to get the help you need. Talking to someone might give you a little peace or allow you to sleep better or dream better. Or there’s always the electro-shock treatment that lights you up like you’ve been struck by lightning.”

  “Yeah, well, we know that’s not happening.”

  “I couldn’t imagine. But seriously, let me set up an appointment with Dr. Taylor. She takes her last appointment at five on most days, four on Fridays. I will leave work early or we can go on my lunch hour. Whatever you say.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  He thought about it for about two weeks, during which time Norman and I got closer. It was strange, though. I felt like I was sneaking behind Rodney’s back.

  “So when can I meet him?” Norman asked. “If he’s your boy, we should meet.”

  I told Norman my concerns and about the Piedmont Park incident. “You think he has something for you, romantic interest?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t, not at all.”

  “Do you have romantic interest in him?”

  “No. Of course not. He’s my friend. Period. We’ve built something special. I told you he welcomed me into his world. And I’ve done the same. Now we’re going to counseling.”

  “Wait,” Norman said. “Hold up. You’re going to counseling together. What? Couples counseling?”

  “I just told you we are just friends. He asked me to go with him for support, and I am. That’s what friends do.”

  “OK, cool. Don’t get offended. I’m just asking. It’s sort of a strange friendship. You go home to a nice apartment at night. And he lays down on the street somewhere? Strange.”

  “Are you making fun of us? It’s not funny and it’s not nice, Norman.”

  “Well, it may not be nice, but it’s real. I’d rather be authentic with you and tell you the truth over being nice and telling you what you want to hear. The authentic me thinks you’re crazy for befriending a homeless man.”

  “And the authentic me thinks you’re insulting me and my friend. We didn’t become friends to be judged by you or anyone else. That man has helped me regain my sense of self. I see him struggling with his past, but trying to fight back. I had a little hand in that. I’m trying to help him. He’s helping me. He’s done more for me than anyone in the last several years. So, I don’t really care what you think about me and Rodney.”

  The more I talked, the angrier I got. And Norman could sense it.

  “OK, let’s not get into an argument over a homeless guy.”

  “That’s being condescending. It’s not an argument over a homeless man. It’s an argument over you disrespecting my friendship with Rodney.”

  “You can’t have a real friendship if you’re not comfortable with the guy coming to your home. You can’t even sit down with him in a restaurant. And if you could, he couldn’t buy you a meal.”

  “You’re disappointing me right now, Norman. I’m so disappointed. You think friendship is only about coming to someone’s house and buying him dinner? That’s how you think?

  “Well, here’s what I think, Norman. You should leave.”

  “What? Over this? I thought we agreed we would take the relationship to the next level tonight.”

  “You think I’m going to have sex with you after you insult me and my friend? I don’t think so.”

  Norman left. I wanted sex with him that night. I needed it. But I was turned off. And when I was turned off, I was turned off. Sending him away also told me that Rodney was more important to me than him.

  So, instead of bumping and grinding with Norman, I pulled out my laptop, retrieved a vibrator from the drawer and went to work. I found a porn site that did not require I give them my credit card information and let it take me there.

  I had not watched porn since my husband left me. It was something we did together on occasion—or just about every Saturday night. I wasn’t into it at first. It seemed, well, nasty.

  But to please my husband, I tried it. My thinking was that I’d rather him watch it with me than by himself or with someone else. Over time, it became less and less nasty. In fact, I came to look forward to those Saturday nights. It meant we’d get passionate and, more importantly, adventurous.

  One time, however, I almost had to go to the hospital. I forgot how limber I was not, and tried to contort my body as I had seen one of the women in a video. I was on my back, with my head at the foot of the bed.

  I slid toward the end until my head was hanging over and almost on the floor. Troy stood over me, and held my legs up and open as he tried to enter me.

  It was OK for a few seconds. But soon I got dizzy from being upside down and I caught a cramp in both my legs—a calf on one leg and thigh in the other.

  Troy thought he was doing something as I screamed. He had no idea at first that it was about pain, not pleasure. It took him a few strokes before he realized the sounds I made were not primal—they were agony.

  We laughed about it after I got myself together. But we used porn for excitement purposes only from that point on, not to emulate.

  That night after Norman left, the porn did the trick: It got me wet and my toy did the rest. In three minutes, I had achieved a release that was long overdue. It was not the same as having a man—the physicality, the smell, the groping—but it served a purpose.

  Oddly, I credited Rodney for me being open to pull out a vibrator after so long. Before he and I became close, I had lost my sex drive. That’s a sad thing for a woman at forty, when sexual desires reach a crescendo.

  But in feeling better about myself, all the things that mattered to me began to matter again. I was not sure if I would have ever gotten to that place if I didn’t have Rodney in my life.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: A SEAT OF THE COUCH

  RODNEY

  I was surprised at myself. Instead of walking and sleeping, I spent much of the day using the cell phone Brenda got me. I read about what was going on in the world, something that had been a pastime for me.

  Brenda had encouraged me to read and to scan the newspaper websites to learn what was happening in the world. I had not read a newspaper in two years. I kept thinking I’d see my face in the paper as the man who killed his family.

  Enough time had passed for that to not be a possibility, and I dug into it as if I were famished. My mind felt open and fresh to process new information. Not all the news I read was good—much of it was disheartening, in fact—but I was reminded how much I used to love to learn.

  I spent more than three hours reading about President Obama and his family and his accomplishments. I had proudly voted for him twice and I cried in the voting booth, when he won and at his inauguration.

  Often I heard people at the shelter, black people, talking about “He didn’t do enough for the African-American community” or “He could have done more.”

  I was ready for the next person to say something around me. I had read so much about the value of the symbol of a dignified black man as president. I was going to tell that person: “It’s OK to try to be fair and even critical about President Obama and what he did or didn’t do for black people. But you cannot deny and you cannot put a value on what he represents to all of us.

  “I read about old people who said they could die in peace because they saw him serve the country with class and grace. I read people, the toughest people, who melted at his presence because he represented them in such a dignified manner. I understood that because as a black man, every time there was tragic news—someone being raped or killed—I literally prayed it was not a black person who did it. The black man’s reputation was a lie, but to white people, it was real, and the more cases of a brother doing something horrific, the worst we looked in the eyes of others. Every bad case was an indictment against us.

  “But here was the most popular and i
mportant man on earth who, for all his time in office, lifted up black people by his mere presence. No scandals. No angry black man. No indignant comments. He personified elegance and intelligence and strength. And our children got to see that. He had been the best example of a leader and a man and husband and father and a black man.

  “So for anyone who said he didn’t do enough for black people, I say he did more for black people than anyone on earth. Here I was, a man living on the streets who felt pride knowing he represented me. You can’t put a value on that.”

  Problem was, I hardly talked to anyone but Brenda anymore, and so I told her my feelings.

  “I’m so glad you started reading,” she said. “And I feel the same as you. And taking it a step further, Michelle Obama was just as powerful and gracious as the president. She rocked it out.”

  We ate gelato on a bench outside of Paolo’s Gelato Italiano in Virginia-Highlands. The guilt still covered me. But I felt more alive than I had in years. Talking politics while sitting outside on a gorgeous evening, enjoying the company of a good woman . . . it all felt so . . . normal.

  I told Brenda that, and she said, “I’m so glad. It makes me feel good to hear that. We’ve come a long way, Rodney. I’m really proud of you. But you know what the next step is, right?”

  “Therapy. I know.”

  “We can go next week. Think of it this way: President Obama would want you to go. You can believe that.”

  It was a cheap trick, but it sort of worked. I thought: If he could endure all the hate and disrespect he did for eight years—for me and the country—I could take a step to trying to get better.

  “All right,” I said. “Tell me when.”

  Four days later, we met at Dr. Taylor’s office on Fourteenth Street in Midtown. Brenda was there before me. When I walked into the building, she stood up and smiled. I had gotten a blue blazer from the shelter and a close-to-new pair of jeans and a white shirt. For the first time in a long time, it mattered that I did not look homeless.

  “You look so handsome.”

  Before I could respond, she hugged me. It felt awkward. I did not hug her back.

  “Come on, it’s this way,” she said.

  Dr. Taylor was tall and calm. She dressed in a striking pants suit and heels and she wore expensive-looking, wire-rimmed glasses.

  After the formalities, she said: “So why are we here?”

  I looked at Brenda. She looked at me. I could tell she wanted to speak, but she wanted me to step up. So I did.

  “Dr. Taylor,” I began. “I’m homeless. I have been living on the streets and in the Peachtree-Pine shelter for just about two years. I have been diagnosed as bipolar and—”

  “OK, hold up right there for a second please,” Dr. Taylor said. “Are you on any medication?”

  “No. Well, I used to take a combination of olanzapine and fluoxetine.”

  “OK, I see,” she said, writing. “How did they make you feel?” “I felt good for a while. I felt in control. But then I began to feel uncomfortable, like I was being held back. Eventually, I just stopped taking it.”

  “But you knew if you stopped taking them, you would have the issues you had, which were what? Paranoia? Bouts of depression? Feeling wired?”

  “Yeah, all of that.”

  “Well, first, let me say this: I commend you for being here. I’m guessing Brenda is responsible for getting you to come. That’s a good friend. I can say to you that coming here is a great step in the direction of getting you in a better place in your life.

  “The reality is that at some point you’re going to need to resume medication. When we get to that point, we’re going to find the right combination to make sure you feel good all the time—but Rodney, you will have to take the medication every day. No matter how good you feel, you should take it every day, as prescribed.

  “That said, what concerns are you now experiencing?”

  “Besides feeling so guilty that I want to punish myself and not enjoying life?”

  “You feel guilty that your family is dead and you’re not? That’s not that far-fetched. In the simplest cases, it’s called survivor’s remorse. Because you’ve been classified as bipolar, we have to look at it in deeper terms. We can’t ignore that you have a condition that reacts to heightened stress.”

  “There’s also, if I might add,” Brenda said, “the idea that at times, he believes people are coming for him and he runs off. It happened several weeks ago when we were at Piedmont Park, talking. All of a sudden, he started talking about spies and people after him and he just ran.”

  “I don’t remember it,” I said. “I believe her one hundred percent. But I don’t remember anything about that. I thought we had done something else.”

  Dr. Taylor nodded her head and typed something on her iPad.

  “How often do you have these periods where you don’t remember something you’ve done?”

  “I can’t say exactly. Every week or ten days, something like that. It’s strange to me because I feel OK most of the time.”

  “But if you’ve seen doctors before, I’m sure you’ve been told that’s what bipolar is about—dramatic behavioral ebbs and flows. What we can do here is talk about what triggers your episodes. So, Brenda, what do you remember about that day Rodney ran away?”

  I hadn’t asked Brenda that question. Didn’t think to. So I was curious about her answer.

  “Oh, wow,” she began. “Let me see. We started the day at Ponce City Market and we walked to Piedmont Park. It was a food truck festival that day. We ate Cuban sandwiches and sat on the grass and watched the people.”

  “What did we talk about?”

  “On the way to the park, we talked about President Obama and what he meant to the black community from a self-esteem standpoint. We talked about how he made us proud, how he showed the world a black man of dignity and intelligence.”

  “What? We did? Didn’t we talk about him today?”

  “We did. I thought it was strange you brought him up again, but I went with it. We talked about the greatness of the president for about thirty minutes that day, too.”

  Dr. Taylor asked: “What was the last thing you were discussing when Rodney had an episode and ran off?”

  “I don’t know if I should say,” Brenda answered.

  “Why?”

  “Because what if it upsets him again and triggers an episode? I’m here to help him. I don’t want to hurt him at all.”

  I was torn between knowing what triggered that episode, as Dr. Taylor called it, and not knowing for the same reason Brenda shared.

  “It was so sudden, Dr. Taylor. We were talking just as calmly as we are now. And then, boom, he changed. And in ten seconds, he was gone.”

  “Rodney, do you want to know about the conversation?” Dr. Taylor asked.

  “Right now, I would say I don’t want to know. She can tell you what it was and you can decide whether she should tell me.”

  Dr. Taylor and Brenda stepped away from me, to the other side of her office. She whispered to her for several seconds. She nodded her head.

  When they returned, Dr. Taylor said: “Eventually, we will talk about this; today probably isn’t the best day. But we will get to it. Let’s move on.”

  I was relieved. I obviously did not have control over what I would do when something was triggered, and I wasn’t willing to risk messing up a good day.

  “Let’s talk in general about how you got to my office,” she said. “How did you and Brenda get to this point?”

  I was not eager to talk about how mean I was to her when we first met. Becoming friends hardly was something either of us considered at that point.

  “I blew her off and she came back to the McDonald’s to talk to me. I blew her off and we ran into each other at Piedmont Hospital. I blew her off and there she was on the West End at eleven o’clock at night, looking for me. That’s when I knew she was sincere and I had to at least listen to her.”

  “And why were you so pers
istent, Brenda?”

  “I was at a bad place in my life, Dr. Taylor. Down in my luck. My husband had left me. My nephew got locked up. I lost my job. My sister was sick and eventually died. But there was Rodney, who was mean to me, but he made me think—about who I was, what my life was, what I wanted for myself and about him, how I could help him.

  “Turned out, he helped me.”

  “We helped each other,” I interjected. “Trust me, before this woman, all I thought about was punishing myself—not helping myself. She’s the only friend I have.”

  “You never know what life has in store for you,” Brenda said. “All you have to do is live it and everything will take care of itself. I’m not as close to anyone as I am Rodney. We’ve spent a lot of time and walked a lot of miles together.”

  For me, that made the session worthwhile. Sharing my feelings, my emotions about someone, emotions that were pleasant and not filled with anger, illuminated my spirit. It had been dark for so long.

  The streets had grown on me and were a part of my makeup, so I did not do a lot of smiling. But I smiled as broadly as I ever had when the session was over and Brenda said: “I’m so proud of you coming today, Rodney. I’m so glad you’re my friend.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: EXPLOSION

  BRENDA

  When I got home from our first session with Dr. Taylor that night, Norman called. It was as if he watched me walk into the house, drop my purse on the table, kick off my shoes, rip off my bra and plop down on my bed. It was then when my phone rang.

  “Didn’t expect to hear from you again,” I said. I didn’t believe that and I was not sure why I said it.

  “What? You trying to get rid of me? I’m calling to apologize. I had told you it was great that you made friends with the guy, whatever his name is.”

  “His name is Rodney.”

  “Right, Rodney. It’s great Rodney is your friend. And I shouldn’t have tried to diminish it. My bad. I’m sorry.”