Bash
I feel stupid for how much I look forward to Wednesday nights now, how much I look forward to a Psych Health class every week, and how much I should be paying attention in both places, but can only pay attention to one face in those rooms.
I keep lying to myself and convincing myself that it’s okay because I’m doing everything by the books. I’m not crossing any lines or making any moves. I’m not letting myself be alone with her, and I’m not trying to be anything more to her…no matter how much I want to.
I’m just here to support her in one room and slide her the notes I know she’s missing in another.
Still, this feels like…more. Like a…a crush.
Is it a crush? Or do I just want to be around her?
Be her friend? Even though I can’t be her friend…
and I don’t think this is just wanting to be her friend…
Erik is my friend…Mason is my friend…I don’t think about them the way I think about her.
Definitely not as much as I think about her.
You can’t be thinking about her, Bash.
I don’t think I’ve had a crush since…probably high school, haven’t even dated anyone since back then, and none of that was real…it was all just fake hormones that don’t have a fully developed brain attached to them.
This isn’t that. This comes with fear and danger and a whole list of complications.
It’s scary being around her. How much I enjoy the small things about her, how I thought it was actually cute when she was standing in front of everyone, going over her part of the pitch for our project…
until I saw her go pale and pause. I could see when it hit her, there was half a second where her eyes went flat like she was spacing out and trying to hold on.
She looked at me like she was about to go under, silently asking for help, and I did the only thing that I thought would help.
I stepped in and took over with my slide while she breathed.
She nodded at me after, a silent thank you, and when she picked it back up for the close, her voice steadied a bit.
She was cute in a way that hurts. She’s this mix of nerves and stubbornness, trying to understand a world that likes to push her around a lot.
She didn’t apologize afterward. I loved that. I’ve been there too, standing in front of people while every alarm in your body says, “exit, find any exit,” and you stay anyway. It’s not a weakness. It’s strength that I admire in her.
* * *
Tonight, Ms. Ricks is leading group, which should make my job pretty easy.
People trickle in, and I start greeting them as they take their seats.
No matter how many people are in the room, or who’s talking to me, my attention always pulls away when she walks in, like my body can feel the shift when we’re in the same space.
She walks in in a loose, cropped hoodie, baggy jeans that still fit too well, and Converse.
She’s the kind of beautiful that doesn’t need to be dolled up to shine; it happens naturally.
She would glow in a dress and in an oversized tee.
She gives me the faintest nod, and I give one back, then put my attention on the center of the circle where it belongs.
We end up on the topic of death, and the escape the idea of death can be after you’ve done everything you can think of to quiet your mind, and nothing seems to work.
The floor gets opened up for discussion about death and loss and grief and suicide and everything in between.
After a few people share some of their darker moments, I’m shocked but also proud when I hear her voice speak up.
“I used to be terrified of death,” she starts quietly. “I saw a lot of it growing up…but, after life just kept throwing more and more punches, I started to understand the peace people saw in it, like it might be better to stop fighting and give in; maybe it was nicer after it all stopped.”
Ms. Ricks silently nods at her and gently says, “You can say more if you want.”
Lydia looks down at the carpet. When she lifts her head, her voice has more emotion thick in it, but she tries to steady it for everyone else around; something she didn’t need to do, not here.
“Well, both my parents died when I was eight…in a car accident my dad caused. I was in the car and watched them. They weren’t great parents, but they were the only ones I had.
I hate that I don’t miss them…but sometimes I still miss the idea of them.
I wish I could have had parents who loved me… I don’t really think they ever did.”
My head drops slightly. I knew her parents were dead, but hearing the story around it—her lack of love from the two people who gave her life…it rips at something inside of me.
“Then, after being in and out of a lot of foster homes with my older sister. She, um, passed away when she was seventeen…from an accidental overdose. I hated drugs after that, swore I’d never touch them,” she laughs a little bitterly.
“That didn’t stick, though…I ended up looking for the same escape she was probably looking for…
but before I ever touched drugs, it was just alcohol really…
not dependence at the time, just a way to numb things…
that was until I got into a pretty bad relationship in high school that ended with… ”
I watch her pause, swallow hard, clearly not wanting to say the next part. Wish I could hold her hand, tell her it’s okay…or that she doesn’t have to.
“Well, he ended up committing suicide…in front of me when I was seventeen.”
The air in my chest gets tighter.
“So, yeah…I used to run from it,” she goes on.
“Death. I used to think I could never take that way out like he did and leave behind that kind of trauma for people. But I just…got too tired.” She looks at the floor again.
“I tried to go, too. Not long ago. After the drug use and the alcohol got pretty bad, and I realized they would never be able to turn any of it off the way I needed…I didn’t want a redemption story anymore.
I just wanted quiet. But I’m…I’m glad I didn’t get that kind of quiet now.
I’m still not looking for a redemption story…
but I’m glad I got a second chance at all of this. Wherever it leads me.”
No one moves. It’s silent in a way that everyone wants to respect how heavy everything she just shared was. A lot of them give her small supportive nods, and I can see the emotions she’s still holding back behind her eyes.
Ms. Ricks thanks her for sharing that when she knew it was probably pretty scary to. She tells her how proud she is for still being here, still fighting.
I’m not, though.
All of a sudden, I’m back in the doorway of a different room, a different time.
Isabel on the floor. Watching her not be here anymore, even though her body was right in front of me.
I can still physically feel the pain, the regret I instantly felt because I should have been there to stop her; I should have done something.
I see Lydia lying on the same floor next to her.
The girl who did make it, the one I was able to get to, who’s here now, telling her story.
A story that breaks my heart and makes me want to take it from her and carry it instead.
Things I wish she never had to go through…
but things that I know have shaped her into who she is, and who she’ll become.
I can’t take that from her, as much as I wish I could remove the pain from the story. It’s hers.
“Bash,” Ms. Ricks says, turning to me. “Anything you want to add before we round this up?”
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. I shake my head once, not to say no, but to say give me a minute. “I—uh,” I say, but it’s all gravelly. “I just need a second. I remembered that I—”
I have no real excuse, and everyone knows it.
I get up, and I try not to look at Lydia, but my eyes betray me on the way past. When they land on hers, it’s like stepping on a nail.
She knows. She sees this hitting me, and the last thing I want is for her to think she has to make room for my feelings about her feelings.
Outside, the air is colder than it should be.
It’s what I need, though. I need the cold to shock my system.
I lean against the brick, put my forehead to it for a second, and try to stop the anger.
I’m angry at this universe and at the devil for thinking it was funny to load a kid’s life with that much loss and then dare her to try sobriety on top of it.
It’s hard to wrap my head around what it would be like to go through all of that.
Hard to figure out why I feel so strongly about it, why it hits so close to my own pain, but also makes my pain seem so small in comparison.
When I go back in, I stand behind everyone instead of sitting back down, and listen like that for the rest of the night.
People talk for a little longer, and then we close out.
Two guys catch me afterward to ask about some of the other groups on campus and resources.
I answer them, but my eyes keep tracking the back of the room where Lydia is slipping out.
I hate myself for what I do next—excusing myself mid-conversation. “Hey, I’m going to pass you off to Ms. Ricks; she normally has the full list of campus resources,”—but I do it because I need to talk to her.
I slip out of the room and try to find her, hoping she’s not too far. Then I spot her pretty quickly.
“Lydia,” I call out.
She stops in the middle of the hallway, and I jog over. “Can you…could you stay a minute?” I sound like I forgot how to be normal. “I need to finish up with Ms. Ricks. I just…if you have time, I wanted to…talk.”
She stands there for a moment, assessing me. “Okay,” she eventually says. “I’ll be outside.”
I go back in and do everything I need to finish up with Ms. Ricks before I head back out.
Lydia’s sitting on the bench when I walk out, phone in her hand but not really looking at it.
She looks up at me, and I extend my hand out to her. “Wanna walk with me?”