Obsessive (14 page)

“It was a joke,” I say, because I know my mom won’t understand. She doesn’t even know about what happened with Tash and Trent before prom, or the stuff at the police station in May. Only my dad does. I was planning on keeping it that way.

“That’s not what I heard.” Melody chops carrots with the same ease, the same evil precision she destroys my life. “I heard that she told the rest of the prom court to eff-off and then made out with the principal, on stage, in front of everybody.”

My mom stops making hamburger patties, and stares at me, wide-eyed. “Who would start such a terrible rumor?”

I don’t have the heart to tell her that it was more like a slight exaggeration. Tash’s exact closing line had been ‘enjoy the prom, fuckers,’ not ‘eff-off.’ And she had kissed Principal Shoemaker, but it was only on the cheek, and only because she figured—rightly—that he was going to expel her anyway.

“High school kids can be jerks.” I shrug, but the sweat has already started to form on my lower back. On top of being uncomfortable, I’m angry. It’d be one thing if Tash was here to defend herself, because she’d probably find a way to laugh it off and expose Melody for the vindictive, red-headed weasel she really is. But if this backdoor, backstabbing my girlfriend to my mom thing is her twisted way of getting my attention, she’s even crazier than I thought.

“Hey Melody, where’s your dad?” The warning in my tone isn’t as subtle as I meant for it to be.

If she notices, she doesn’t care. “He’s out in the back yard with your dad, doing manly stuff like firing up the barbecue.”

“Great, I think I’ll join them.”

I leave Melody alone with my mom, knowing she’s probably going to keep dropping not so subtle hints about Tash, but too upset to keep my temper in check. The last thing I need is to blow up and stab Melody in front of my mom, or yell at her and make her think I’m having an episode. I’ll just have to explain it to my mom later, that Melody is the classless one, and Tash is the best thing that ever happened to me.

When I go out on the patio, my dad and Mayor Patrick are talking about some health care initiative that’s going through congress. I join in, showing off what I’ve learned to my dad. I can tell he’s impressed, that I’m making him think about how important politics can be to the future of health care, how helpful it might be to have a son who’s willing to get involved in the legislative side of things. For the first time in as long as I can remember, he’s treating me like an equal, instead of a patient or a child. I’m not naïve enough to think it’s all because of me, though. I know it’s because I’ve got the mayor standing next to me, patting me on the back and bragging about how smart I am. How this country needs more kids my age who are willing to get involved in government.

It’s too bad his daughter is a sociopath, I keep thinking, even as I put on the perfect son act.

Over the next couple of hours, I find myself falling into my old habits again. Faking normalcy for the sake of other people, even as my mind screams that it’s all a lie—that it’s only a matter of time before I snap. I even sit next to Melody at dinner, and manage to smile politely when she kicks me playfully under the table.

Even though my heart is racing the entire time, and my hands are shaking, and my stomach feels like it’s full of chemicals, I smile. I count every word, I tap my foot religiously. I do any and every ritual I’ve ever done before, and then some, just to keep from screaming out loud. I tell myself it’s what I need to do, just to make it. But I don’t actually make it.

Because after dinner, I go up to my bedroom and take off my shirt, then I wash my hands and arms and splash water on my face, again and again.

And when I come out of the bathroom, Melody is sitting on the end of my bed.

That’s when I lose it, Tash-style.

“Jesus, Melody! What the fuck are you doing in here?”

She smiles and leans back on her elbows, making herself at home in my room. “Wow, looks like someone has been a bad influence on you. I wonder who
that
could be?”

“Get out.”

“Make me.”

For a good three seconds, I consider it.
One, two, three
…. It would be so easy, just crossing the room and wrapping my hands around her throat, or maybe smothering her with a pillow. I glance toward the door, but it’s closed. She must have shut it behind her.

“I’m serious.”

The threat in my voice is probably ruined by the fact that I’m standing there without a shirt, still dripping. I watch her eyes drop, and she smiles in a way that makes me feel dirty. Is this how girls feel when guys check them out? If so, it’s gross, and I feel guilty on behalf of my entire gender.

 “You know, I get why you’re with her. And I’m not judging you. Guys go after trashy girls because they think it’s easier than waiting for the real thing. It’s like low-hanging fruit. But the secret is, good girls are just as much fun. We just keep it behind closed doors.”

I’m so angry now, I can barely talk. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Intrusive thoughts notwithstanding, I’m pretty sure I’ve never actually considered hitting a girl before. But now, it’s all I can think about. I want to do something to shut her up, to make her realize how wrong she is. My fists clench, but I hold my ground.

One, two, three, four
….

Melody stands up and comes toward me. I want to take a step back, but if I move, I might lose it.

Five, six, seven
….

“My dad has a girlfriend, you know,” she says. “He thinks I don’t know about her, but I do. My mom knows too, I think, because she’s always taking these trips out of town or pretending to come down with a headache when we’re supposed to be together. Maybe she’s dating someone else on the side, too.”

She touches my chest, and I flinch back violently, taking a step toward the bathroom. Maybe I’ll turn and run, and lock myself inside. To hell with appearances, or what she might say to her dad. Forget trying to man up and assert my dominance. My whole body is a bundle of raw nerves. I shouldn’t have stopped taking my meds. I see that now. Managing my impulses only works if I have time to see the triggers coming, not like this. I’m caught off guard, exposed. Something bad is definitely going to happen, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

“Don’t you think your parents would be happier if you were dating me, instead of some sketchy girl from a trailer park? It’s time to start thinking about your future, Grant. What kind of person you really want to be. I can help you get there. Don’t you want to get out of this town? Don’t you want to do something important with your life?”

“Grant?” A small voice bleeds in from outside. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, I picture Tash standing in the hallway outside my room. What if she changed her mind and decided to come watch the fireworks? I picture her walking in, just in time to see me half-naked, with Melody’s hand sliding suggestively down toward my belt. My stomach turns. The doorknob jiggles. But Melody must have locked it, because then someone knocks. “Grant, mom says it’s time to leave or you’re going to miss the fireworks.”

Gen, it’s just Gen. I let my breath go, feeling like I’m about to pass out. Melody takes a step back, annoyed at the interruption. I realize it’s my chance to escape.

“I’m not interested, Melody,” I say, very carefully. My jaw muscles are so tight, it feels like I’m chewing brick. “Now please get out of my room.”

Without waiting for her to respond, I turn and go into the bathroom. I slam the door behind me, hard. I lock it, checking three more times to make sure it’s not going to open. Then I turn on the shower, as hot as it will go. I wait until I hear my bedroom door open and close again, before stripping down and closing myself safely inside my little glass sanctuary.

Today was supposed to be my independence day, but now I’m right back where I started.

Tomorrow is going to be worse, though. Because it’s not a weekend, or a holiday, but a regular work day. An internship day.

I have no idea what I should do, or how I’m supposed to fix this. I can’t just keep pretending everything is fine, because it’s not. Everything I’ve ever achieved in life has been because of my ability to make people like me, to keep the darkest side of myself a secret.

But what if Melody is right? What if the only person I’m kidding is me? Here I am pretending to challenge myself, but I’ve never actually done anything. I’ve never actually left the safety of my parent’s house, or traveled abroad, or even spent more than one night away from the comfort of my sanitary shower filled with a stunning variety of antibacterial soaps.

What if I’m with Tash because it’s easy? Not in the crass way Melody meant, but in a more depressing, codependent sense? I don’t have to pretend with her, because she’s seen so much worse than my darkest parts. But what about the rest of the world? What about people like Melody and her dad, people who aren’t so accepting or willing to overlook my embarrassing mental weaknesses?

What if drugging myself senseless and lying all the time is really the only way I’ll ever be able to get through life?

What if my self-control was always just an illusion, the cruel side-effect of another obsession—achieving normalcy, homeostasis… or even just a single moment of
peace
?

I can’t bear to go down that pathway any further, so I focus on my showering ritual instead. I count and soap and rinse and soap again. But every time I reach to turn the water off, I can’t do it. So I start again. And again. And again.

CHAPTER TWELVE

What drives a person crazy?

Is it the endless string of unwanted thoughts, each leading to another, until the unease of everyday worry evolves into an endless torment of doubt that leaves you questioning the reality you thought you lived in?

Or is it the refusal to embrace the thoughts, the action you take to try and correct them, that breaks you?

My uncertainty on this point is absolute. The only thing I can be sure of is that I’m unsure. Of everything. All the time.

What did I say? What did I do? Am I sure that’s really what happened? Maybe the reason Tash never came over was because I made her feel like I didn’t want her. Maybe deep down, there’s a part of me that doesn’t, because she’s right. Because I do think I’m better than her. Maybe I’m a narcissistic sociopath who only cares about himself. Maybe I’ve been flirting with Melody this entire time, leading her on. What if I said something that made her think I wanted her, that I was the kind of guy who would cheat on his girlfriend? What if I’m a terrible person? What if the only reason I haven’t ever acted out on my violent thoughts, is because I’m afraid? Not because it’s wrong. Maybe I only think I know right from wrong. Maybe deep down, I’m incapable of love. Maybe I’m dangerous. Maybe it’d be better off if I spent the rest of my life alone. Maybe Tash would be better off, too. In fact, I’m pretty sure she would be. She deserves more than what I have to give. I deserve nothing. I’ve earned nothing. I am nothing.

Over and over, I tell myself it’s all in my head. Everything that’s wrong with me only exists in my mind. But when thoughts become actions, and actions lead to consequences, that’s when the lines become blurred. That’s when it gets harder and harder to believe that it’s not my fault. That I didn’t choose this. That there’s nothing I can do to stop thinking and feeling this way.

Because at the end of the day, there is something I can do. I can stop existing. I think, therefore I am. But what if I’m not? What if I could find a way to just make myself go away? To shut off the cause of my problem, instead of just muting the effects?

I’ve been throwing away my pills for weeks, just in case Dad decided to count them. But I knew if I threw away all the Klonopin, he’d start to get suspicious. Those are only for emergencies. As far as Dad knows, I’ve had no emergencies.

But that’s where he’s wrong. That’s where everyone is wrong. My life is one big never-ending emergency. My brain exists in a constant state of high-alert, fight or flight, panic.

Cognitive reprogramming, my ass.

I thought I could quell the thoughts, but I was wrong. I thought I could learn how to feel and deal with things like a normal person. All I had to do was practice.

But I failed.

So maybe it’s time to try another approach to this equation. Maybe it’s time to turn the feelings off. All of them. Maybe, if I stop the thoughts at their source, I’ll finally be able to see things clearly.

So I get out of the shower, and I go to the medicine cabinet. I pull out my pill container and select the little round blue pill with the K in the middle. The prescribed dose for adult patients with panic disorders is 1mg per day, one pill. In case of emergency, I can take up to two pills. The last time I took that much, I felt dead inside for days afterward, like a zombie. No, worse than that. Zombies still want things, like food. They can still feel pain. When I was a zombie, there were still these moments when I knew what I was missing. I still knew there was something wrong with me.

What I need to be isn’t a zombie. I need to be able to process, unhindered by need or pain. I need to be a robot.

So I take four of the round, blue K pills.

Then I go to bed. I don’t remember falling asleep, and I don’t dream. The next time I open my eyes, the sun is coming up. I feel sick, nauseated. I climb out of bed, clumsily. My joints feel stiff, like I haven’t moved in years. I stagger to the bathroom, because it feels like I’m going to throw up. But I don’t. Instead, I just stand there in front of the sink, staring in the mirror for what seems like hours.

I don’t recognize myself.

The face staring back at me is totally blank, devoid of humanity. Its skin is pale, its eyes are dead. There’s no spark of intelligence, or flicker of fear.

I know there’s something I’m supposed to be doing, somewhere I’m supposed to be. It takes me a few minutes, but I figure it out. The clock on the wall is a helpful reminder. Work. I’m supposed to be getting ready for work.

With slow, clumsy movements, I wash my hands and face. Once. Then I leave the bathroom and get dressed. I don’t triple-check my shirt for wrinkles, or spend forever making sure my tie is straight. Those things don’t really matter, anyway. I don’t know why I ever thought they did.