IT WAS one hell of a party. Everyone in the school was celebrating the midsemester finals ending. There had to be multiple parties going on. I chose to go to the ones with the artists. We’d pick a house and gather, the drama geeks, the writers, the visual artists, the singers, the dancers, those types of people. The LGBTQA club usually came too. It sounds varied, but honestly, it was a small group. There was a lot of overlap of talent.
I was usually invited to those parties because I fell into the writer’s category, and I went to represent the A in LGBTQA because I’ve always been absurdly full of asexual pride. Emmett would always go with me. I was probably invited because Emmett wanted me to go with him. Emmett was invited to everything; everybody loves him. That fateful night, he wasn’t able to attend; he was out eating a fancy dinner or something with his parents. So I went by myself. Emmett was and is my best friend, but I had other people I could sort of call friendly people who wouldn’t lower my IQ in standard conversation.
We usually ordered pizza and sat around, talking about television and movies, and playing improvisational games. They were quiet affairs. They were peaceful and incredibly fun. I was hoping that party would be along the same lines, because I was looking to unwind after the stressful testing period.
Brittany, though, who volunteered to host the party at her house for the first time, had a different idea of stress unwinding. She had procured a fake ID and got a keg. I suspect that she used her makeup-applying skills to make herself look older. I’ve seen her handiwork; it is astounding, quite frankly.
I got there fashionably late, my mom having dropped me off at the door, and was greeted by a bunch of ragingly drunk artists. They were running around with Solo cups and letting their drinks slosh over the sides. They grabbed handfuls of chips from various bowls that were scattered throughout the main room and smashed them into their mouths, carelessly letting the crumbs fall and get ground into the carpet beneath their feet. Somehow, the neon orange cheese stains were unified, as if they’d leaped out of a painting to fall on the floor.
I sat down on the couch and watched the proceedings with a morbid curiosity. People kept disappearing into the kitchen and coming back, significantly drunker, less coherent, and seeming incredibly stupid. It looked disgusting, but it was entertaining as hell to watch.
Brittany slunk in from a door in the adjoining hallway, using a towel to scrub off a rogue wrinkle, assumingly from her trip to the liquor store. She saw me and narrowed her eyes with a vicious delight.
She disappeared into the kitchen, much like her fellow artists, but returned with two full cups and made a beeline toward where I sat, practicing a perfect posture and watching the events unfold in front of me, most likely with a horrified fascination written on my face.
“Hey, Carter, welcome to my humble abode.” Brittany put both cups on the table in front of us and smiled at me. I shoved my hands in my pockets as a response. “How are you tonight?”
“I suppose I’m alright, but a little shocked. This is definitely not what I was expecting.” I was honest, but wary of her intentions. Socializing had never been my strongest suit. I was lost.
“Aw, don’t be shocked. We’re all just having fun,” Brittany cooed, before standing up and dragging over two girls who were dancing to the tinny music blasting from one of their phones. Harper and Darcy moved the table and plopped on the floor while Brittany resumed her perch next to me, essentially caging me in, although I failed to notice what they were doing at the time.
I nervously struck up a conversation with Darcy, which Harper joined, giving me a little relief because Darcy and Harper were a funny pair, and Brittany sipped her beer from her place next to me and occasionally opined on the topic we were discussing. After a few minutes, she grabbed the second beer off the table and handed it to me. I accepted it politely, but refused to drink any, while casually scanning the room for a plant to dump it in, just as I’d seen it done in the movies.
When I casually excused myself, Brittany grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled me back down, and my drink sloshed onto my shirt, soaking me. I gasped audibly, swearing loudly in annoyance. Harper and Darcy laughed hysterically while Brittany began apologizing profusely, seemingly sincere.
“Let me grab more!” Harper shouted exuberantly when I focused on her. I tried to protest, but Brittany cut in, coming to my aid.
“No, Harper, it’s fine. Carter’s got to finish what’s in her cup first. Look, it’s still got a few sips in it.” The three girls got into my face, cheering me on to finish the last third of my drink. Darcy even tapped on the bottom of the cup, nudging it into my face. Gravity did that annoying thing it does, and a bunch ended up in my mouth. I choked on it, and the beer dribbled from the corner of my mouth. I gulped down the rest and shuddered.
I was worried about the beer and getting drunk, while everything I ever learned in health flashed through my mind. It takes thirty seconds for alcohol to reach the brain. Maybe I was getting in my own head, but I started feeling looser, more relaxed. I hesitantly took a small sip, finishing the cup, and put it down on the table. The action was celebrated with cheers from the three girls.
Darcy excitedly got me more. We toasted the end of our horrible tests, and drank our beers quickly. Needless to say, I got very drunk very fast. Brittany disappeared to mingle with her drama friends. I suspected she was less drunk than we were, but frankly, I didn’t care by that point. I was having too much fun. I felt free.
A little while and a lot of beer later, I suggested to Harper and Darcy that we go for a walk. There was a lovely forest behind the house, and when the ice smothered the exposed branches in the winter, it was a beautiful sight.
We ran into the woods, tripping over each other and laughing. Darcy and Harper kept leaning on each other and twining their hands together to drag each other around and dance in circles. Darcy started singing, and we joined in. Harper began composing fan fiction out loud, and we shouted ideas at her to make it better. I started speaking in rhymes.
Seeing everything from a drunken point of view, though, was nothing short of splendiferous. I kept babbling about the forest and other inane things, and I loved every second of it, up to and including the part where I punched a frozen river. Of course then, I didn’t know what was going to happen after.
Now: 8:12 a.m.
Tuesday, August 6th
DESPITE THE awful things Brittany said to me on previous days still weighing on my mind, I find myself in fairly positive spirits. It’s weird, but I feel well rested and calm. I imagine there is a metaphorical storm coming. I should tell Jordan, my therapist, that later at my appointment. He’s likely to have some advice on it.
I start the morning staring at my journal, the handwritten one, much to my chagrin. The entries take place in a red spiral-bound wide-ruled notebook. In the top right corner, there is a mostly intact price sticker advertising the need of a whole ninety-nine cents in order for it to be mine. I have a pencil with a rubber grip to accompany it. I write my thoughts on the metaphorical calm down before I eat and leave it on the kitchen table while gathering supplies for a bowl of cereal. The writing still sucks, but it’s gotten easier to decipher.
When I turn around to return to the table, there is a cereal box tucked under my left armpit and a spoon shoved in my elbow. A forearm and a wrist hold the bowl to my chest and the milk dangles off of my right hand. I still hate it, but I’m doing Darwin’s adaptation thing. It’s still a bitch to shower, though.
Like Darwin’s animals, it is essential for the stronger to survive and reproduce. I’m not totally a fan of the reproduction part, but for now I am focusing on being the strongest so that I can survive and keep going.
My mom is seated at the table, reading through the journal. I heard her come in, and I greeted her. I don’t complain about the journal because Jordan, my therapist, reads it too. It’s supposed to help me get better. I’m feeling fairly open to the idea of recovery at this point. Everything they’re doing is supposed to be a good thing, and nothing’s hurt me yet.
My mom looks up at me when she’s done reading and grins slightly.
“Metaphorical calm before the storm? Why?” I cannot say anything; my mouth is full of cereal. The marshmallow-to-crunchy ratio is way off, and I am too distracted by that to think about anything else for a moment. The cereal is too crunchy, and within a minute it is soggy and the marshmallows are bloated. I shovel it down quickly because breakfast has become gross.
I have not told my mom about the bitch encounter—as I’ve chosen to call it—in full detail, and I have no intention to. I’m trying to move on. I don’t want to create any drama. Because honestly, Brittany was right about one thing. I love the spotlight. I’m not a theater person. The stage has never epically called my name, but the shine of being the center of attention is alluring. But she-wolf does enjoy the spotlight too, being the pack leader of the drama elite at school.
I clear my head and go about cleaning up. Everything is systematic now, and it all has its place. I put the milk away first, popping the door open with my left shoulder and putting the gallon in its proper place in the door. I open the cabinet across from the fridge next before returning to the table for the box. I stow it and close the cabinet before going to the table once again, putting the spoon in my bowl and then carrying it to the sink.
I rinse it off quickly, putting the bowl in the basin before turning on the spout, removing the spoon from the bowl first and rinsing it off before putting it down. I pick up the bowl next, letting it fill with water and swirling the milky concoction around before dumping it down the drain. In the water-milk swirling, a marshmallow has become glued to the side of the bowl, so I put the bowl down in the corner of the sink and press my left forearm against the rim to keep it steady while I attack the marshmallow with a sponge, scrubbing at it until I can pry the stupid thing free.
Once that is done, I turn off the water, open the dishwasher, and put everything away. The last thing I do before going off to get dressed is grab my napkin off the table, swat at my face one final time, and throw it out.
My mother, who has watched the whole time, finally opens her mouth to talk to me. I turn around at the sound of her voice.
“That was fairly efficient,” she says. “You’re getting a lot faster at the little things. I’m impressed.” I smile a little, because I feel like everything is going well for me today.
“Thanks,” I mutter quietly, heading for the stairs.
“Wait, Carter, have you taken your medicine today?”
“Nope.” I wheel around and head to the cabinet above the cereal cabinet, opening it and taking out the little orange pharmaceutical bottle. “I forgot.” I sit down on the floor and squeeze the bottle between my knees while I maneuver the top off. I rise slowly with the bottle in hand and put it on the counter so I can get a glass. I press it against the button in the fridge door so I can get fresh water and swallow the little pill. I repeat the sink process and put the glass away so I can get dressed.
Later that day, I practice texting with Emmett’s speed in the car while my mom drives me to visit Jordan, my therapist. I must thank the autocorrect function, because it’s fairly challenging with a single hand. But I manage to send a text in a decent amount of time.
Me: So, how are you?
Emmett, being the speedy little demon he is, replies with an extreme amount of speed.
Emmett: What?
Me: What?
Emmett: You don’t really ask how I am, kind of ever.
Me: I haven’t?
Emmett: No, but I’ll gladly tell you.
Me: I’d like to hear it :-)
Emmett: Well…….
Emmett: OKAY!
He then launches into an incredibly long explanation of how he is so incredibly satisfied with the fact that he has made puberty his bitch in the space of two days and that he wants to purchase ratty band shirts to impress his new type because he’s pretty sure he has a new type, and thinks he needs to feed his goldfish and then gives me more details on his rugged crush that is so blessed with cheekbones and ratty band shirts. It makes me laugh out loud, literally, and I tell him so. He is very pleased with himself. I tell him he should listen to the bands before getting their ratty shirts, and that not all band shirts are ratty and some are in fact quite nice.
I do have to sign off with Emmett temporarily and go into the shrink’s office. I spend my allotted forty-five minutes talking with Jordan, my therapist, and I wonder what the metaphorical storm will be. He is supportive of the oncoming storm because he thinks it will be a breakthrough that will lead me on the steps to the rest of my life. I chuckle and admit that the rest of my life seems daunting.
My mom comes in for a minute at the end and talks about my morning routine and how she thinks it’s going well because I’m getting much more efficient. Jordan, my therapist, says he thinks I’m going to be just fine. I grimace the tiniest bit because it sounds so cliché and normal, and I’ve never been a fan of normality because it seems so boring. But being boring and normal every once in a while sounds enticing for some reason.
As I leave, he tells me that he thinks I am making incredible progress and that he has every confidence in me to succeed. He says things like that a lot; he’s full of inspirational quotes and such. While it sounds kind of cheesy, I flush with an interesting happiness. It isn’t happy, though, as much as content.
It is hard to believe in true and real happiness sometimes, but this contentment, it is warm, and inviting. It makes me feel pretty damn good. This content, I think it may be something to believe in. Happy seems like a challenge. It’s hard to believe in something that’s been so absent in my life for so long. It’s a weird, foreign ideal, and at this point it just seems like a tease. I’d rather be content because there is comfort in contentedness.
I make sure to write that in the journal the minute I get home. I hate that I’ve been forced into right-handedness, but it’s getting easier. Slowly but surely. Maybe it might make others feel content too, or happy, because they’re better seasoned with it.