58. Bash
Bash
I spent the entire summer at home for the first time since I left for college.
Spending longer than a week or two back home since Isabel died was never something I could stomach.
I rarely came home, and when I did, I kept my bags packed and counted down the days until I’d leave again.
Staying in that house dragged me into the darkest parts of my grief.
Every summer, I’d make an excuse for why I couldn’t spend the whole break there—summer job, extra credit classes, someone else’s couch, anything just so I didn’t have to spend three long months stuck there, and stuck in the past.
This year I stayed, though.
I realized in that hospital parking lot, alone with my thoughts, that not going home had turned into its own kind of avoidance. I was losing or damaging my relationship with my parents by being scared to be around them and around the house because of the baggage and ghosts stuck there.
I told myself I was going to do the hard version this time. So I’m making myself stay. No other plans, no escape route, no running away.
The conversations came in small pieces. One night, we made dinner together, and even though it was box pasta with jarred sauce, my mom pretended like it was from a five-star restaurant.
And after my dad poured two glasses of scotch and set them down, pushing one toward me.
I just stared at it until the ice almost melted, and then broke down and told them about everything—the anxiety, the guilt, the drinking, the coke, the women, all the useless band-aids I let control me for so long.
I didn’t minimize any of it. I told them how, when I left for college, I could pretend I was okay during the day, and then blackout at night.
I started to use alcohol so I wouldn’t ever have to think about the grief, about how I could have maybe stopped her, how I could have prevented all of this, how I wasn’t a good enough brother to her, how I was so lost after without my best friend, the person I told everything to.
Going from hearing her voice every day to never being able to again altered my brain in a way I couldn’t handle.
My mom never interrupted me. She just listened and took it all in, even when I could see she wanted to comfort me. My dad’s jaw did that old thing where it was stone, then tried to soften up. When I finished, it was so quiet from nobody knowing what else to say.
“I should’ve asked you more,” my mom said finally. “I should’ve pushed to know how you were really handling everything.”
I shook my head. “I wouldn’t have let you in back then. You couldn’t have known.”
My dad and I talked about the way never being allowed to show my emotions growing up kept me from asking for help when I really needed it.
My dad cleared his throat. “Men where I come from don’t…we weren’t taught to talk about our hurt and pain.” He tapped a knuckle on the glass. “This is how I brought up mine. And times like these show me that’s not a good way.”
I nodded. Half of my family is Southern Black, half Puerto Rican.
I grew up with two different languages for love and none for weakness.
My uncle used to clap me on the back and say, “Stand tall, mijo,” like the bad weather would see how strong I was pretending to be and keep moving.
When Isabel died, the only thing I knew how to do was pretend to be strong.
So I ended up standing until my legs gave out.
We started really talking on purpose after that.
Not fighting, just laying everything bare without being scared.
We sat on the back porch in the heat and just named out all the things we felt like impacted us and our relationships the most. My dad told me how he used to sit in Isabel’s room at two a.m. and count the books on her shelf because it was the only thing that made his heart slow down when he thought it was going to beat out of his chest. My mom admitted she still bought things at the store for her out of habit and then would come home and hide them from the guilt.
I told them how I avoided coming home because my body would always automatically walk to her door to check on her, and my heart would break every time reality reminded me there was no need to check anymore.
They asked me questions about school. I told them how much I was loving my major, how much I was learning.
I told them about the practicum coming up in the fall, where I’d be doing more clinical hours.
I also told them one of my new classes required therapy of our own and that I was weirdly more afraid of that than any site placement.
“You on both sides of the chair,” my dad said. “That’s a lot.”
“Yeah, but I think it’s time,” I told them.
My mom reached over and put her hand on my wrist. “I couldn’t be prouder,” she said. “Of who you’ve become. Of who you’re letting God make you.” She swallowed. “Your sister would be insufferable about it all.”
We laughed, but she was right. I could picture it vividly, and it didn’t make me sad either. I smile at the thought, knowing I’d get to see her again one day, and I’d get to catch her up on everything she’s missed. I think about how much more I still want to do for her before I see her again, too.
Later, my dad made me come into the garage with him, wiped his hands on a rag, and leaned against the workbench.
The garage has always been his confessional.
“I’ve been angry a long time,” he said. He didn’t say Grayson’s name, didn’t have to.
“At him, at the world, at God, at myself.” He breathed out a long sigh.
“Watching you change how you hold all of this…I want that. I don’t want to carry the anger anymore. ”
We didn’t hug, cause the men in this family aren’t big huggers. But his shoulder bumped mine on purpose, and it was more meaningful than words or a physical embrace.
I visited the cemetery too many times to count, just to feel closer to her, to talk to her, even though I didn’t know if she could hear me…maybe just hoping God would relay the message to her for me.
The church near campus had become my second home during the last year at college, and I kept the rhythm in the summer with a church near my parents’ place.
I’m not a good churchy person, but I like rooms where people pray their real feelings, and keep it raw.
A place where we all know we don’t have all of the answers, but we all have at least one.
I couldn’t help but text Sandro not long after break started.
My mind wouldn’t rest until I knew something, anything.
He told me she flew back home to Charlotte and was starting a program, and didn’t know if she’d be back this fall or not.
That’s all he was told by his sister. It wasn’t much, but it gave me some peace, something to put in my prayers.
I’m not a mystic, but there were days I’d be at my dad’s workbench, tightening a bolt and feel something cold and heavy slide through me for no reason, like a crashing wave.
It sounds ridiculous to say I could feel her bad days.
Maybe I couldn’t. Maybe I was just thinking about her too much.
Some days, the feeling moved on. Some days it sat with me until I got tired.
By August, home had shifted in small ways. My parents weren’t different people, and I wasn’t either. We just weren’t pretending to be the old ones anymore. That was enough.
* * *
The first day back on campus felt…different. Every year, I would come here as an escape. This year felt like I was coming here with a purpose bigger than myself, but still for myself, for my growth.
“Senior year, baby,” Erik said, bumping my shoulder as we unloaded stuff back into our dorm.
“Don’t say it out loud,” I said, laughing. “It’ll hear you.”
I set up for my Clinical Practicum seminar with Dr. Alvarez.
“This semester,” he said, “you’ll each be at a site eight to ten hours a week. You’ll co-facilitate or shadow in pairs if needed.”
He gave us the full assignment rundown all about boundaries, supervision, confidentiality, what we could and couldn’t do, and what we should never try to do alone. He reminded us that if we weren’t in therapy ourselves yet, we’d need to start by October to fulfill the requirement for our course.
I held my envelope while he went around the circle, everybody tearing theirs and making faces.
Children’s grief camp. Veterans’ peer group.
Court-mandated anger management. Campus counseling front desk triage.
When I opened mine, I saw Campus Recovery Community typed out, and under it—Group co-facilitator.
There was a list of what we would have to do—weekly group, office hours for drop-ins, one-on-ones with supervision, midterm reflection, and final case formulation.
Basically just diving into all the problems and coming up with all the solutions we can think of.
I let out a breath. I’d been secretly hoping for the suicide loss support group, but those slots are rare. This CRC group still felt right and a little terrifying. Something I feel like I can relate to and connect on a personal level since I’ve had my own struggles.
On break, I went up to Dr. Alvarez’s desk and waited until the cluster of students thinned. “Hey,” I greeted, and he looked up like he’d been expecting me.
“Recovery community,” he says, nodding. “You’ll be good there.”
“I hope so,” I say. “Uh—if anything opens up with the suicide loss group this semester or next, could you keep my name on a list?” I clear my throat. “I just…I’m interested.”
He studies my face the way he does with everyone, not prying, not not prying.
“I can do that,” he says. “I’ll also wanna talk about if this is readiness and a good placement for you, not just interest.” He gestures vaguely at the air.
“Your reasons are your reasons. In here, we’ll make sure they’re not the only thing you look at, though. ”
“Fair,” I say. “Thank you.”