Thirty Hours: a semi memoir of psychosis and love

by KL Evans

  With that, you climbed off of me and sobbed some more as you meandered out of the room and wandered aimlessly through the dark house. The storm was growing more intense, as was your crying, and all I could do was follow you around to make sure you didn’t do anything to hurt yourself, intentionally or otherwise.

  I followed you into the bedroom and by the light of intermittent flashes of white, I watched you strip down to the same nakedness you’d worn the very first time I saw you, and then crawl into bed with your convulsing back to me.

  It seemed you regarded the raucous thunder as a mask for your weeping because you cried harder and louder still. The deep, despair-laden grief still didn’t drive me to tears, but it incited desperation in me and, somewhere in the back of my mind, I recalled something that seemed useful.

  I’d read something somewhere about the hormone oxytocin. The Love Hormone, as it’s fancifully referred to. It acts as a neurotransmitter in the brain and is responsible for bonding between mothers and their babies and between sexual partners. It also combats cortisol, the stress hormone, and studies have shown that stress, anxiety, and depression were abated after test subjects were injected with oxytocin. Oxytocin is released with affectionate physical contact. After birth, babies are often placed on their mothers’ bare chests and the calming effect is immediate. The practice is called skin-to-skin, and this is what compelled me to strip down to the bare minimum clothing necessary for modesty and climb in bed with you, holding your back against my chest and wrapping my arms around you.

  You gasped quietly as if you weren’t expecting it, and I had to tell myself I wasn’t being creepy; this was a scientifically tested way to calm you. And after a couple more sobs, you clutched my arms and finally subsided into quiet and serenity.

  “You have me, Charlie,” I said into your ear, and oh my god all of this suddenly made me nervous, but how could I not say that?

  “You’re really sweet, Seth McCollum,” you said through a yawn.

  It didn’t take long for you to fall asleep. I quickly followed and it seemed you led us both into a dream replete with sex and love and laughter, but every time I reached for you, you stepped away, or you dissolved into a filmy smoke, or you simply disappeared. But I kept reaching for you, hell-bent on and determined to catch you, and it felt like a game of chase. It was fun and you giggled and smirked and said, you can’t catch me, Seth McCollum. You’ll never catch me. I was undeterred and the dream became a race, a marathon, and I ran while I reached and grabbed and you chortled. Always out of my reach, until the very end when I caught you from behind and held you close to me.

  It was then that I found, for the second time, that I woke up with my hands on breasts. Unlike the motel room, however, it wasn’t a startling discovery and I embraced it while I embraced you and found myself kissing your neck.

  And you were saying please. Your hands were on my hands, instigating all of it, and you were saying please. After the third or fourth please, it finally clicked that the dream was over and it was in reality that I’d caught you.

  “Seth, please.” Begging had replaced the crying and you were pressing yourself backward against me, and I could’ve consumed you. Swallowed you whole.

  “Please.” You were still begging and I couldn’t understand why you felt that was necessary; as if there was some reason that would stop me from following through and taking all of you that I could get.

  “Please. Everything feels so bad and I just need to feel good. I just need something to make me feel good. I swear I won’t get clingy or obsessive. Please do this for me, Seth. I need this. I need you.”

  And then I remembered. Doing this with you and for you had implications. I remembered, and it wasn’t even that long ago, that I refused this on a number of occasions specifically because of those implications. Because of what I would end up being for you. A tattoo on your emotions that you’d either love or hate or even become indifferent to, nevertheless permanent, and that intimidated me.

  “Please, Seth,” as I suddenly realized my give-a-fuck about all of that was gone.

  “Please, Seth,” as I pulled you even closer with one arm and let my other hand travel well below your concave navel.

  “Please, Seth,” as I returned the favor from the garden and your head sank backward into my shoulder. The rain was gentle and steady on the window and a shiver traveled the length of you; down your spine and through the tips of your toes, where it seemed to transfer to me and exit through the top of my head.

  “Please,” and I realized I hadn’t answered you and wondered if I needed to.

  You don’t need to beg, I thought of saying.

  I’m not worried about you being clingy or obsessive, I probably should’ve said.

  But I didn’t say any of that.

  With my lips to the nape of your neck, “I want you,” was all I managed to articulate, and it was the truth, but not the whole truth. Good God Almighty, I’ve never wanted anything more, would have been more accurate, but my feeling that way and inability to say so were both the result of the same thing. That thing was the song and dance we’d been doing for more than five months and by that point, in your bed, clad only in a sheet, I was infected with longing and lust and seedlings of love that had taken root inside me. And I bet anything that if I’d found the guts to tell you that, those roots would have grown sturdy and strong and we’d be having this one-sided conversation in maybe fifty years instead of right now.

  But I didn’t have any guts, and I was hovering above you and answering your begging with, “You’re too tense. Try to relax. I’ll go slowly.”

  And slowly I went, but you should know I’d never done that before; been someone’s first. There’s obviously a technical aspect to it that’s a little more complicated than all the sex I’d ever had. I wasn’t so sure about what I was doing, or how to do it in a way that wouldn’t hurt you, but I managed to figure it out. And in a way, we were both deflowered.

  I tried so hard to be considerate, to be gentle, to be reverent, and to remember that this was all you’d ever asked of me. To remember that you chose me for this, and you chose me from our very first conversation, and suddenly I believed love at first sight existed. It had to. It had to because you’d said that to me so many times, and right then you were looking up at me with total and complete awe, making me feel like I was the greatest lover in the history of the world, and my God, you looked so beautiful. I managed to tell you that, and you smiled in a way that was simultaneously yearning and satiated. You smiled for a while until you ran your fingernails through my hair and pulled our lips together.

  Kissing you like that ushered me to a place where it was hard to focus on being considerate, gentle, or reverent, and I couldn’t think of much, but I suddenly thought of the fact that I wasn’t using a condom and had no idea whether or not you were on some kind of birth control. And that was the only other fucking thing I managed to say to you.

  “Are you on the pill?” I’m the king of fucking romance, let me tell you, and my priorities were clearly showing.

  “You don’t have to worry about that, Seth,” you whispered into my ear, and that was good enough for me, and then it was fucking firecrackers.

  And then, for about three seconds while I caught my breath, everything in the world made perfect sense.

  I love you. I could do this. We could do this. It all makes sense. Of course I didn’t realize it at the beginning; I had no way of knowing then. We would just be one of those couples with a really funny story about how we met and a really inspiring story about how we managed to stay together. I saved your life, and we were meant to be, and I would be able to take care of you like this forever. I even thought of just the right way to tell you about this realization during my moment of perfect clarity, but then, after those three little seconds, I lost it.

  It was gone. And you were still looking at me with an awestruck expression, stroking your fingertips up and down the back of my neck, and I was rubbing my thumb over your fo
rehead, and I almost remembered the way in which everything made sense. I almost remembered how to explain it all to you. But, just like you in my dream, I reached for it and it was gone.

  “Thank you,” you murmured, and where were all of my goddamned words?

  I’m a writer, for fuck’s sake. Where were all of the words that could articulate how incredible that was, and all the things we could be, and how I felt about you, and how utterly ethereal you looked? I had no fucking words and that was the worst possible outcome because if only I’d had words, maybe then you’d know, and maybe then we wouldn’t be here like this right now.

  I had no words and all I was able to articulate came out as a reflexive, “You’re welcome.”

  Then you laughed like we were sharing a joke, and I laughed too, but mostly because I was so flustered. I told myself it was okay; I’d remember later when the blood had returned to my brain and I’d slept some more. I resorted to kissing your lips and your cheeks and your neck as I lay down next to you, pulling you close and tugging the sheet up around us, but then you suddenly jerked it off and jumped out of bed.

  That was more than a bit alarming and I shot upward just as you were waltzing out of the room. “Charlie, where are you going?”

  You smirked at me over your shoulder. “If you must know, I kind of need to clean myself up.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  I lay back down and you returned a few minutes later, eyeballing me. “Don’t feel like you have to sleep here.”

  “I don’t feel like I have to. I want to.” That was as brutally honest as I could get, but it still fell woefully short. And yet, it felt like it was too close for comfort.

  “That’s fine,” you agreed, as if we were discussing where to go for dinner. You climbed back in next to me and lay on your stomach facing me. “Just remember what I said.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t want you getting too attached to me, Seth McCollum.”

  And then I was thankful for my words going missing because I was suddenly defensive. “You don’t have to worry about that, Charlie.”

  Just like I didn’t have to worry about you getting pregnant, right Charlie? We’re just a pair of bloody, fucking liars and we’re fucking perfect for each other.

  “Good,” you said, letting your face sink into a pillow while you gazed at me with hooded eyes and a serene expression. I couldn’t tell if you actually looked different or if I saw you different now, but something was different.

  “Well?” I said, expectant.

  “Well what?”

  I tried to be casual and not sound like I needed some kind of affirmation, because honestly, it was mostly sheer curiosity. After all, it was first of sorts for both of us. “Do you feel different?”

  You smiled. “I think I kind of do, actually.”

  “Different good?”

  “Yeah. Like I’ve joined a club or something. Or like you let me in on an awesome secret.”

  I felt like I was grinning a bit stupidly, but that seemed okay. “An awesome secret, huh?”

  “Yeah.” You grinned back. “You really are so cute, Seth McCollum.”

  “I think you’re just seeing me with lover’s eyes right now.”

  “No, I’ve always thought you were cute. I even told you that a few times before.”

  “I guess you have, haven’t you?”

  “Yup.” You took a deep breath and sighed as you turned your head to face forward. “Man, what am I going to do with myself?”

  I don’t think you were asking me, but I answered anyway. “You’re going to keep going to school and finish your program, and then you’re going to get a job where you’ll help save people’s lives.”

  You laughed a sad-sounding laugh. “I don’t mean that.”

  “What do you mean then?”

  You laughed the same laugh and then sniffled, and it was then that I realized you were crying. You wiped your nose with the back of your hand and my gut told me I was the reason you were sad right then. And my gut is never wrong.

  “I really like you, Seth,” you said in a voice as sad as your laugh.

  “I really like you, too.” Massive understatement. “Why do you sound sad about that?”

  “I just wish…” The hiccups and tears started coming, and along with them the higher pitched voice. “I just really want to talk to Jade right now. I had this super cool experience, and I like you so much, and I just want to talk to Jade about it.”

  My heart broke and I suddenly understood why someone coined that expression, because it physically fucking hurt. I hurt for you and I hurt for me, and there was nothing else for me to do but reach for you and pull you close. I held you and you cried for a long time while the rain picked up again outside.

  You continued to cry as you kissed me and I kissed you and every part of you beckoned me to come into you again. It was the most beautiful, sad thing I’d ever been a part of.

  You cried the whole time, your face deep in crook of my neck, and I loved you. I loved you and I love you and I hate you because you gave me just a taste before it was all gone.

  Hour Twenty-Nine

  I didn’t understand why you were allowed to “like me so much” and say you loved me, but I wasn’t allowed to “get too attached to you.” I understand now, of course, but not then. And that particular double standard made me defensive and insecure, so there was no way I was going to bring it up. I’m convinced my not bringing it up is the reason I’m probably going to lose you.

  Emotions are strange, and love is probably more so than others. It can be fast and completely over-the-top, or it can subtle, slow, and steady to develop, or it can be a combination of the two. The latter most is what happened to me.

  I had a moment of realization that hit me over the head and then my eyes were opened to everything that had happened already, and it was like all of those puzzle pieces floating around in the air when I was trying to figure out the mystery of the girl I’d come to learn was Charlie. It all made sense in retrospect, but I had to wonder if I was, to quote myself, viewing everything with lover’s eyes.

  Not that it mattered, and it didn’t. At the time, I didn’t give anywhere near as much thought to it as I’m giving it now.

  No, at the time, I realized it, but I didn’t feel any necessity to do anything about it. I didn’t ruminate over my feelings, nor did I have any desire to make a big deal out of them, make a dramatic declaration of love, or make any kind of plans for the future. It just was what it was—is, I mean. My feelings haven’t changed, although in retrospect I really wish I’d felt the need to say something because, again, I think maybe we wouldn’t be in this situation right now. Maybe you wouldn’t be so insistent upon leaving me.

  I digress. At the time, everything was good enough for me without making an announcement or cluing you in on how strongly I felt for you. Not only was I insecure and defensive, but I also wanted for nothing. I had you. I was with you. Almost every single day. Almost every single night, and my God. Those were some good nights. You were so adorable and funny and utterly delicious, and you gave me everything but your heart, but—once again—that was good enough for me. At least, at the time. After all, I had no reason to believe you were going to suddenly and dramatically cut everything short.

  I should have, though. The signs were all there, I just didn’t read them. I was too distracted.

  Yes, you were very distracting. And I still had a lot on my plate, a lot of places to be, and since you were with me, I wanted you with me, and I brought you to court for Christian’s hearing. You brought a textbook, but you didn’t get much studying done because you were distracted too. By me.

  “You look brutally hot,” you told me discreetly, but not discreetly enough for a courtroom as far as I was concerned.

  “Charlie,” I scolded quietly. “Not now.”

  “You do, though,” you whispered. “I’ve never seen you in a suit and tie. What is it about a suit and tie?”

  “Shhh.”r />
  “I’m serious.” You lowered your voice even further and spoke into my ear. “A suit and tie is to a woman what lingerie is to men.”

  I stifled laughter in spite of myself. “This is neither the time nor the place.”

  “Do you like lingerie? I have some, you know.”

  “Charlie…” I warned. You smiled and shrugged, and you were so damn cute that I had to smile back. “Later.”

  That seemed to suffice, and you turned your attention to the hearing. We were a couple of rows back from where Missy was sitting with Bonnie, and the sight of Missy made my heart ache.

  I’d grown extremely close to her by that point, and I think I was starting to view her as some kind of pseudo-mother. My own parents live way over in McKinney and can’t be bothered with me most of the time. I can’t really be bothered with them either. We just don’t have that kind of relationship; we never have.

  I do love my parents, don’t get me wrong. But sometimes blood isn’t enough to forge or maintain a connection. Since I finished college, I’ve just done my own thing and they’ve done theirs. And maybe part of me subconsciously longed for something paternal and/or maternal, and I’d attached myself to Missy as a result. I was also helping her. She was extremely grateful and made me feel needed, and I think ultimately I just need to feel needed and like I’m doing something good in the world.

  Sitting in the courtroom, she looked dignified and strong and timeless, wearing her best Sunday dress and a firmly set jaw, but she also wore a familiar look in her eyes. One I’d seen so many times in her and you and dozens of other people in situations they’ve resigned to accept as hopeless reality. Sadness. Desperation. As if the fixed gaze could plead with the universe and negotiate a better outcome for their circumstances, but all the while knowing no such outcome existed.