“Thanks, Doc.” Mikayla was right. These therapists aren’t all that bad when you give them a chance.
The anticipation to get out of here is driving me insane. Grace suggested that I continue to talk to someone once I am released from Chasing Freedom. Since we spoke last week about tools I could use to make my transition easier, I have felt optimistic, but nervous. I won’t always have someone to talk to while I’m on the road.
I can afford to take a therapist with me, but that’s not exactly the lifestyle I want. One where everyone knows I have some problem when there’s a shrink traveling with me because I’m not strong enough to deal with my own problems. I don’t need to draw more attention to this situation. The media has already loved telling the world that I am “a raging alcoholic” and saying that there’s no hope for my recovery. If I have ever done anything right, it is to prove people wrong.
I continue to play the song that’s been in my mind while sitting on my bed. Since Red left, this place feels different. I still search for her when we have group therapies or meditation, and it’s only been a week since she left. And she’s in my house.
Stop being some lovesick fool.
The girl did something to me, and she doesn’t even know it.
I close my eyes and sing, knowing that I’ll have to talk to Joe this week. I sigh and lean back against the headboard. I’m not in the mood for Joe’s bullshit, but it’s only a matter of time before we need to work together again. I’m pretty sure he’s the one that convinced the label to force me to come here for a full term.
I rub the back of my neck and change into shorts and a sleeveless tee shirt. After slipping on my sneakers, I walk to the gym and hit the treadmill, plugging in my headphones so I can get lost in music that’s not my own. I tear off the headphones when Miranda Lamberts’ “Gunpowder & Lead” comes on. That song always hits me straight in the gut. I am never able to get through it. She’s a great person, but she wrote a song that fucks with me.
Visions of my mom being beat enter unannounced. The satisfaction in my father’s face as he would slap her rivals the hatred I felt standing behind a wall and praying God would stop him. God never answered my prayers, so I stopped him when I could. Sometimes you can’t count on anyone.
I remember the day my mom called to say he had died. I felt relieved. I knew we could stop living in fear of him coming back. But that was also when I changed. Something happened in his passing. Maybe it was that I never got the chance to tell him what a fucking bastard he was. Maybe because I never got the chance to yell at him like I always wanted to, because I was too afraid of what he’d do to me.
I’m a coward.
Fuck.
I jump off the treadmill and stalk over to the punching bag, glaring at the person using it. Bare knuckles collide with the leather forcefully. I’m on repeat, hitting the bag with all I have in me until I slide down onto the floor breathing heavily and drenched in sweat.
I never protected my mom. My father’s death is what kept her safe. One time that I stood between them and beat him up is no protection. He may have never come back, but I stood there for years wishing someone would help when I didn’t do anything. My hands cover my face. I’m no better than he was.
My yells echo throughout the gym, losing all sense of control. I’m no better man than he was.
“Tyler.” I hear a firm voice call out my name.
I slowly turn my head but remain sitting on the floor. Sam approaches me slowly, giving me time to react to her coming near me. I follow her gaze down to my hands. I don’t even flinch when I see the broken skin stained in blood.
“I need you to take three deep breaths to the count of ten. Inhale.” I do as she says, but I feel numb. I stare straight ahead to the white wall.
“Can you stand?” she says in a low voice. I nod. “Come with me.”
I follow her into an office and watch her take out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and gauze.
“I’m going to have to clean those cuts.” I nod.
“Fuck!” I exclaim when the liquid hits my skin.
“Stay still.” She’s firm. “It will hurt for a second.” She moves to my other hand, and I clench my jaw.
Once she’s done, she sits on a chair and looks at me. “What happened?”
I shake my head, still somewhat in a daze.
“Tyler . . .” I look up at her, my eyes void.
“I’m a coward.”
“Okay . . . why?”
“All these years I thought I had protected my mom that one night, when in reality I did nothing all those other nights. All those nights, I witnessed him beat her. All those nights, she would cry and all those mornings, she would cover the bruises with makeup. You have no idea . . .” I choke towards the end and close my eyes.
“It’s not your fault. You didn’t hurt her. You didn’t provoke it. Some people . . . Some people are that way.” Sam’s shoulders slump, and she has a forlorn look about her.
“Sam.” She gives me a small smile.
“Sorry. Sometimes we can’t control other people and their actions, nor can we stop them the way we wish we could. We can’t change people, Tyler.”
“You had that kinda life.”
Sam doesn’t answer.
“How’d you get over it?”
“With a lot of forgiveness, even when I didn’t think the person deserved it. Forgive yourself. The rest will come more easily with time. But I’ll tell you what, this can mark you forever, or strengthen you. You want to keep living your musician lifestyle and be happy, too? Let it make you stronger, not weaken you with alcohol and substances that are temporary fixes.”
“I should have—”
“Nope . . . Number one rule, eliminate the word should. Stop adding more pressure on yourself. You were a kid.”
“How old were you?”
“Twenty-three when it started.”
“And when it ended?
“Twenty-eight.”
“You were brave to at least end it. My mom . . .” Sam shakes her head, stopping me midsentence.
“Not strong, angry. The only thing that stopped it was death. And he still haunted me for a long time after that. Don’t let your father haunt you anymore. Your mom has moved on. Move on, as well. It’s okay to continue living. Stop punishing yourself.”
“I know,” I whisper. “Does Red know any of this?”
“No,” she says quickly.
“Understood. Thanks, Sam.”
“Go talk to your mom when you get a chance. I think she’ll be able to help.”
“You got any family, Sam?”
“I got my dad and his family now.”
I nod and smile. “They’re lucky.”
“Thanks, Tyler. You’ll be out of here in a week, and I swear it better be the last time I hear your name being admitted into this place. Do right by your mom and yourself and quit the drinking and messing around. You got a real chance to make a difference. You might want to consider using some of the songs you wrote here to do that.”
“We’ll see.” I thank her again and walk out of the office. I curse when I stretch my fingers. I lost my shit in the gym, beating the shit out of that punching bag like never before. Forgiveness. Does it make me less of a man because I want to forgive and forget the past?
“This is for you.” Sam hands me a note as she sits on a chair across from the sofa where I’m at. I look at the folded paper and open it.
I smile and fold the paper back into the square it was. Demand he train me. I roll my eyes.
“He’s taken by you.”
“What?” My head snaps up to stare at her.
“Are you ready for him to move back in here?”
“It’s his house.” I shrug.
“But you’re living in it. How has it been since we last spoke?”
“Okay . . . Every now and then I hear something and freak. I breathe the way you taught me and focus on something I like to do.”
“Good. You’ve been doing yog
a?”
“Yes,” I reply. Sam hasn’t been able to come back since last week because of her schedule, but she’s kept in contact via cell phone and it’s helped.
“Remember that Tyler is also overcoming his own struggles. Be patient. He has a label to answer to when he’s out and a career to continue to repair.”
“I know,” I whisper. I take a few deep breaths. “Do you think it’s smart for me to still live here?”
“That’s up to you. I don’t think you’ll be in danger if that’s what you’re asking. I think it’s good to have someone as a support while he’s in town. You two were already each other’s support in Chasing Freedom.”
“That’s true.”
“And, if at any time you need me, you call me and I’ll come to you. I’m not too far from here.”
“Thanks for that, Sam.”
“You’re welcome.”
We work on our session, practicing techniques and talking out my emotions. I’ve been better about my mirror work, and Sam smiles when I tell her I almost got through the entire I love you phrase.
“Have you thought about taking an art class?” Sam asks.
“No. I wouldn’t even know how to go about that. Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“Mikayla, instead of asking me if things are good ideas or not, look within and tell me what it feels like to you. Does an art class sound like something you’d like to sign up for?”
I shrug.
“It’s yes or no. Don’t over think it. Would you like to take an art class?” She repeats her question.
“Yes, but . . .”
“Nope. No buts. We’ll look into a community class. Some aren’t expensive, since you take your own supplies.” I smile at Sam. Right now, I worry about my financial state. I don’t want her or Tyler paying for me.
“Thanks.” I smile at Sam.
“We’re going to work on your self-deserving. You need to believe that you can have all you want. No one can control you anymore.”
“Okay.”
After our session, Sam instructs me to close my eyes, and she guides me in a short meditation. I only focus on the colors and my breathing. I had forgotten that this could actually be helpful. Tyler’s face appears behind my lids, and I admire his smile and sad eyes. I prefer to see his face during a meditation than that of . . .
I shake my head and stop my mind from going there. No thinking, only feeling. I take a deep breath and listen to Sam’s soothing voice.
I open my eyes once she’s done and see her smiling face. “Good job, Mikayla. You let go today.”
“Thanks.”
Sam promises to keep in touch while we wait to meet again. Knowing Tyler will be home next week makes it a little more difficult to schedule a session, but I promised her I’d choose a day and let her know.
I walk up to the art room and grab a new canvas. I’m going to have to go to the store and buy some new ones soon. I’ll have to check on the internet where the closest craft store is. I pour paint onto the palette and stroke the brush against the colors, creating images on the canvas. I close my eyes and allow my imagination to guide me in this. Stroke after stroke, the painting comes alive with dimension and meaning.
I step back and look at the guitar with a rose bush entwined around the neck, bright red roses blooming from the spiky stems, caressing the guitar.
A beautiful flower with a vicious attack. Violent beauty. A contradiction like no other. The vibrant greens and red of the plant create a contrast against the browns of the guitar.
I leave it to dry and check the time on my phone. I got so caught up in the painting I lost track of time. My stomach growls, informing my I should feed myself. I need to be better about eating throughout the day.
Restless, I clean the entire house. At least the rooms I feel comfortable going into. In a few days, Tyler will be here. I miss seeing him daily and his friendship, but I’m also uncertain about how our relationship will change once he’s out of there too. He has a life outside of Chasing Freedom and me, I don’t. Chasing Freedom has ironically been the best part of my life that I can remember. I roll my eyes as I mop the kitchen floor. It’s not like the house is dirty, but I figured it would be good to clean anyway. Therapeutic, even.
After cleaning the kitchen, I head to the gym in the basement. I take a few deeps breaths once I sit on the yoga mat to still my beating heart. Why am I so nervous? I rip my nails from between my teeth and bring them to my heart center, closing my eyes in preparation for a much-needed yoga session. My breathing is leveled, my mind is clear, only focusing on the poses.
I’m grateful Sam introduced me to yoga. It’s been one of those things that keeps me centered and focused on one thing. Before, nothing would still my mind this way. Painting being the other thing that soothes me. I need to keep those practices in my life, and I’ll be okay. I may never be great, but I can live with okay. It’s better than what I was living with before.
I grab a small water bottle from the mini fridge in the gym and chug it before switching to push-ups and light weight training. I was never one to exercise before, but I see the benefits. If I can be stronger also, I’ll take it. If I can stand up and defend myself, it will be worth it. I’m not a little girl anymore.
I think about my mom. I wonder what she thought about everything that was going on. Did she turn a blind eye because she also felt hopeless? Did she die hating the man as much I do? Would she have done it differently had I asked her to?
My head snaps to the side, and I hold my breath. It’s in my mind. The sounds are not real. I relax my shoulders and stretch my muscles. I hear something again. Fuck. They sound like real noises. Did someone come in? I clutch my phone and have it ready to go in case I need to call someone. Then, I go to a corner of the basement where I can still see the stairs. The footsteps quiet down. I’m losing my mind.
I tiptoe up the stairs, scrubbing my left palm on my leggings and switching my cell to that hand to dry off my right hand against my clothing. I reach the last step and look right, then left. I exhale when I don’t see anyone. I walk quietly throughout the rest of the house. I hate that it’s so big.
This is part of your mind. I repeat the phrase like a mantra. I want to overcome this phase.
Having Tyler around will have the perk that I won’t be alone and fearing for my life. Fearing someone will come and get me. Overcome fear. That’s my goal. I can’t always count on someone being there to keep me company, so I don’t panic.
I run up the stairs and grab my sketchbook before racing outside. Fresh air and drawing will help.
After spending some time outside, I grab the laptop from the art room and turn it on for the first time. I tap my fingers on the kitchen counter while I wait for it to fully load. I sigh and open a browser. Using my pointer fingers, I type art classes in Nashville into the search engine and wait for the choices to appear on the screen.
I clench my jaw. All I want is a community art class, not art school or college degree. I retype my search, adding the word community. After twenty minutes of reading through sites that offer nothing of what I’m looking for, I find a helpful site. It’s a nonprofit organization that offers activities in the community, specializing in struggling teens. Although I’ll technically not be a teen for much longer, I can ask if they have something for adults since the images on the site show adults as well as teens.
I dial the number and talk to an employee. She tells me they currently have a ceramics class for adults on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. I can begin on Thursday. Being that it’s a service for those people who need an outlet for their emotions or addictions, the classes are inexpensive. I write down the address she gives me and the time the class starts. I have never done anything else besides drawing and painting, but this sounds like it could help. If anything, I can squish the clay hard to release my anger.
Mikayla: I signed up to a ceramics class at Healing Hearts.
Sam: Great . . . They’re a good center.
I smile and put my phone on the counter. Then, I search for jobs in the Nashville and Brentwood area. Nashville is about a twenty-minute drive according to the map, so a job there would be possible. I have no idea how traffic is, but I can handle that drive.
Overwhelmed with the job options in Nashville, I try to narrow my search to something more secretarial. There are quite a few companies hiring, and it’s a matter of finding one that has the line of work I’m familiar with. My experience is limited, but I’m smart enough to learn the ropes quickly. I think back to Tyler’s option. I could ask him about a job at the record label. I don’t even know the name of it to research it.
I slump in the stool when I realize I don’t have a resume or much experience to add to one. Will anyone take me seriously? My mind wanders back to Electrified and Sienna’s journey. Although not a classic novel like I’m used to reading, something about that story captivated me. I can learn a thing or two from how she opened up and began living a normal life after her experiences.
I open an email address account and continue my search, staying optimistic about finding the right job.
I get out of the car and look at the building that houses Healing Hearts Community Center. I push my purse strap higher on my shoulder and walk with my head held high.
“Hi, I’m here for the evening ceramics class,” I tell the woman sitting behind a desk in the entrance.
“Hi.” She smiles kindly. “The room is down the hall to the left. It will be marked Art Room.”
“Thank you.” I take a deep breath and walk towards the room. I close my eyes for a beat before opening the door and plastering a smile on my face.
“Hi,” an older woman greets me. “Welcome.”
“Thank you. Hi. I’m Mikayla.”
“I’m glad you’re here, Mikayla. I’m Marcy, the instructor. You’re right on time. Is this the first time you work with clay?”
“Yes. I paint and draw, but I’ve never sculpted.”
Twisted in You Page 14
