Bash #2
“I came from a home where emotions were considered private…you didn’t talk about the negative ones.
We’re very loud in our love, but we weren’t always loud with our grief.
When my sister died, I thought the only way I would keep my sanity was to be the strong person who held everything together, even though on the inside I was falling apart, begging someone to notice.
” I take a second to breathe and try not to filter my prepared speech because she’s here.
“I started drinking in college because it turned the volume down for a while,” I say simply.
“And then I kept drinking because I didn’t know how to turn the volume down any other way.
I lived inside the party scene on campus because it was the only thing louder than my thoughts.
That turned into a lot of coke lines and a lot of self-destructive behaviors that only shook my bottle up more.
I never let anyone touch my bottle or even know it existed…
because that was how I made people believe I was okay.
The metaphor that helps me is the soda bottle,” I say, tapping the drawing.
“When I white-knuckled and acted like I wasn’t shaken, it didn’t make it stop…
I just sprayed out on the people who loved me when something triggered me.
And when I ripped the cap off, hoping I’d ‘get it out,’ I made a mess I had to clean up later, and I never felt any better in the long run…
I just became a flat soda and repeated the cycle over and over again. ”
I look up at the imaginary list in my head and pick something small. “What started to change things for me was tiny release valves. I also learned how to tell the truth with people I trusted instead of hiding.”
I let my eyes skim the circle and land on everyone for a beat.
A scan, not a search. When my gaze crosses Lydia, I give her the same beat I give everyone else.
No extra. My chest does the ache thing, where I want to stop and give more of my attention to her, talk to her like no one else is in the room, but keep it moving.
“So,” I finish out. “Between now and next week…pick one hiss to practice and tell one safe person what it is. No heroics. Just the quarter turn.”
We open it back up to free discussion for a while, and then close out with a breathing exercise led by Ms. Ricks.
Everyone murmurs their goodbyes, and the room slowly shifts into the after part.
I tidy handouts because it keeps my hands from being weird while talking to a few passing people walking out.
Ms. Ricks slides up next to me. “You’re a natural, Bash,” she tells me, smiling. “You held your own well.”
The nervous tension in my body drops a little with that acknowledgment from her.
When I look back up, a couple of people are left, still talking to each other.
I see Lydia at the edge of it all, standing around like you do when it’s your first time somewhere like this.
When you want to connect, but don’t wanna wave your arms for people to notice you.
I catch her eye. Lift my chin toward the lobby for her to come over. Then I make myself go slower than my impulse wants. The hallway is quiet, and I just stand there watching and waiting for her.
“Hey,” I say, sticking my hands into my back pockets. “Can I…have like two minutes with you? Outside?”
She hesitates, then nods.
We step outside, and I lean my back against the brick wall of the building, nodding my head to the bench for her to sit if she wants. She places her bag down and sits on the bench, pulling her legs up on top of it with her, and facing me.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” I say. It sounds obvious, but I tell her anyway. “I’m—” I feel stupid saying proud, like it’s some gold star I’m trying to give her. I say it anyway cause I think it matters. “I’m proud of you for coming.”
Her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile too hard. “I almost didn’t,” she says. “I sat in the library for twenty minutes making a list of why it was a terrible idea, why I didn’t want to tell other kids I’d probably see around campus all my problems.”
“New rooms can be pretty intimidating.”
Her eyes flick toward the campus that’s still filled with students walking by. “I didn’t know you were—”
“Psych major. Clinical hours.”
She squints at me in mock suspicion. “Psych, huh? Wouldn’t have guessed that looking at you.”
I bark out a laugh before I can think better of it. “What does that mean?”
She shrugs, cheeks going a little pink like she didn’t expect herself to say that. “You’re…not really what I picture when I think therapist.”
I pretend to be offended. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
She tips her head, searching for what line she’s willing to cross here. “Um, good to look at,” she says, shyly. “But the distraction that can be is probably the bad part.”
It’s not obvious flirtation; it’s subtle, and makes me feel things I know I shouldn’t.
“I could shave and wear a clip-on tie next week?” I offer.
“Oh, please don’t,” she says, laughing.
“I wanted to make sure something is clear, though. If being in a group I help facilitate makes you uncomfortable, I can switch nights. No hard feelings. I want the room to feel safe for everyone.”
Her eyes snap back to mine, surprised, then relieved. “It was…weird for, like, a second,” she says. “Then it made me feel—” She pauses, thinking. “Less weird? I don’t know…kinda made me feel more comfortable for some reason.”
“If that changes, tell me. I’ll move. We’ve got a Thursday group. It’s not an issue.”
She nods. The breeze lifts the small pieces of her hair, and I hold onto every feature of hers.
“How are you?” I ask, careful to keep the question focused on tonight, not asking for my own personal need to know. “I know first nights can be…a lot.”
She studies the parking lot, then looks at her hands around her legs.
I’ve noticed how she avoids eye contact.
Like, she’ll give it to you for a second or two, to be normal, and then look near you or at something on herself just to break the stare.
It’s…I don’t want to say cute…but…I don’t have another word unless I want to pull out the therapist analyzing card, which I don’t want to do with her.
“Yeah,” she says. “But like good still, like you just have to get past the first awkward part, knowing it’ll be worth it after.”
“It will be,” I tell her, then look at my watch. “I won’t keep you,” I say, pushing off the wall. “But it was good to see you. I’m here on Wednesdays. We keep check-ins tight at the door, no therapy in the hallways. But if you ever need someone to talk to, I’ll always be here to hear you out.”
She nods, standing up and walking across the grass a couple of steps before turning back. “I’ll probably come next week,” she says, like she’s really just making the deal with herself out loud.
“I hope I see you,” I tell her, and mean it more than I should. “If you change your mind, that’s okay too.”
She nods and slips off into the night. I just watch, arms folded, staring like I can will whatever desire I have to be around her away with telling myself it’s nothing.
It’s just caring about another person in a human-to-human kind of way.
Of course it is. It can’t be anything else. She’s still just a stranger.
Even when I hate that she is.