Session Three
UnForFuckingGettable
I glanced at Fawn one day, so beautiful and poised and thought: It must be nice, to be able to walk away from someone knowing they’d turn back around just to look at you one last time.
Then, I said it aloud.
She had this… expression, on her face. Confusion, disorientation?
“What?”
She laughed. “Say that again.”
I opened my mouth to do just that, and she held up a hand. “You sound like Blu. What happened?”
It’s a gift, you know. Meeting someone who can read you like a fortune teller reads palms. BPD isn’t split personality, it’s not like Blu and I are different people. But the embodiment of Blu Henderson, it represented a chapter of my life that sucked the life out of everyone else’s.
She knew it. The second those words left my mouth, she goddamn knew it.
“You saw him again, didn’t you?”
“I’ve been seeing him for months.”
I think the worst part about it was the shock on her face. The same look I gave myself when I sought him out. The same look I gave myself when it ended six months later.
Somewhere between disdain and surprise.
How could I be surprised?
What the fuck did I expect?
A different person?
She didn’t ask why. She didn’t care why. She said one statement and one statement alone. Then, my knees sank to the ground:
“You will never heal in the place you learned to hate yourself.”
…
I told Stacy that my best friend could replace her job at the drop of a hat. She chuckled, told me to sit down and opened her little notepad with all her sad findings.
My sad findings.
“How are you doing this week, Beatrice?”
“Well, we’re over.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
I nodded at her booklet. “You know how I feel.”
She set it aside and I wanted to swipe at it, throw it out the window and start over. It was all I’d ever done, all I’d ever known how to do.
“Have you been taking your medication?” She asked, gently.
Crossing my arms, I took the pill bottle out of my bag and shook it in her face.
Listen, my beautiful friends, this is not a reflection of who I am now. I realized how disrespectful I was being, how bratty and crass, how undeserving Stacy was to all my bullshit.
But that’s what happens when you love someone who completely destroys you.
Not just Jace, but Mom. Dad.
Not just Jace, but Kyle, Zac, Tyler –
Funny, how everyone who hurts you starts to resemble one another. After all, pain has nowhere to go but grow.
If. You. Let. It.
You let me.
***
Stacy asked me: “What made you go back?”
And I thought of all the reasons. None of them good. All of them selfish.
I settled on a therapeutic answer, for the both of us. “Validation.”
There, honest.
“Hm.” She leaned back, pen tapping her knee. “The curse of validation.”
“Precisely!” I said. “Now, can I be excused?”
“It’s not a classroom, it’s your space. You can leave whenever you want, Blu –”
And there, right in that very fucking second –
The world tipped on its head.
I’d never seen Stacy’s cheeks redder than in that moment. The embarrassment like a bright red slap from a heavy hand, staining both cheeks.
“I –” She started to say, panic in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Beatrice. I meant you – Beatrice – you, not Blu. It slipped, this is quite unusual for me, I must –”
“Doc,” I whispered, unable to look at her.
Shame.
So much shame I thought I’d choke on it.
It crawled up my throat, blue specks of ash floating in my periphery.
Blue, Blu –
She called me Blu.
Not because she forgot my name, no.
Because she was right, unintentionally, astronomically –
Right.
Blu… was back.
And somewhere along the way, I dug her up from the trenches and buried Beatrice instead.
“I should…” I paused, fighting back tears. “I should be the one apologizing.”
…
Shame.
***
If only therapy were linear, we’d all be healed by now. I mean, should you choose to actually attend and not wave pills in front of your therapist’s face and break down like a kid on a carousel screaming: MOM, THESE HORSES ARE SCARING ME!!!!!
If only I had a mom to yell to.
If only I had a healthy mind.
If only I had a boy who loved me enough to stay.
In a perfect world, maybe those things would’ve fixed me.
But perfect, unfair as it may be, frankly doesn’t exist.
That’s why they call it a fantasy.
And fantasy, well, it’s just a prettier way of saying fake.
It’s dangerous like that, you know. Fantasy. Disguises itself as the dark prince only to actually be the villain that keeps you in chains and starves you for love.
Bit by bit, one day at a time, you realize that not all heroes wear capes, sure –
But not all villains give you happy endings.
Breadcrumbs are never a meal.
And love, will die, when it begs to be fed.
***
So, we know what happened when Stacy asked me why I went back.
It was a whole different ballgame when she hit me with: “Then, what do you miss?”
“Miss?” I knew what she was asking.
I missed the way he looked at me, like I was a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out.
I missed the smile he gave me, a rare treasure when it was genuine. But a treasure, nonetheless.
I missed how his body fit with mine, though factually, it didn’t fit at all.
He was too tall, I was too short.
His muscles were lean and ropey, they couldn’t lift me like you’d see in the movies.
That made me insecure, gravely erratic, and I took it out on him –
Then, myself.
I wanted to fuck in the dark because he couldn’t see me in the light.
Me, you know what that means.
The scars. The fat. Tattooed skin meant to conceal where I’d attempted to slice out the imperfection. Imperfect out of loss, imperfect out of abandonment. Desperately territorial of losing any validation Jace gave me (occasionally).
What did I miss?
I missed the distraction, the relief from myself. How when we were good, he could take the pain away. A lethal dose of morphine, making the bad times bearable.
He was the bad times.
But our memories spoke differently.
Whispering to me at night, for years.
What if? What if?
Can we rewrite the past?
“What do you miss?” Stacy asked again.
I responded, “Memories.”
She glanced to the open window, eyes glossy, a moment coming to mind. You can tell, you know. When someone thinks about something that has nothing to do with you, but everything to do with them.
She thought of her own past, because after all, a therapist is just a person. Like me. Like you.
And before I could say another word, she glanced back, and said, “The same memories can look very different when you change.”
***
I had to know.
I mean, how could I not pry?
It wasn’t my intention, but, “We?” I asked, inching closer. “Do tell, Dr. Hemline.”
“Stacy, Beatrice, please.”
I leaned back, shrugging. “You had a slip up, it’s only fair.”
The corner of her mouth quirked up and I smiled. Not a dream patient, far from. But unforgettable.
Funny, I thought. I still got it.
So do you.
I know, we all hate lectures, that’s why we skip class. But maybe, the lessons are in experience? They sure as hell were for me. And if I can tell you one thing, it’s that in trying to make an impression on others, we lose sight of ourselves.
Every. Damn. Time.
So stop abandoning yourself to keep people company. Stop bleeding yourself dry to satiate others. Not everyone deserves the softest version of you, and the worst of them all are the people who suck out every good part of you and keep asking for more.
Don’t give them more.
Be the person who laughs too loud and loves too hard.
The person who never apologizes for what they bring to the table.
Because you’re fun, outgoing, quiet, shy, tender, fearless –
And you are UnForFuckingGettable.