Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Zane reaches for me but stops himself. “I’m sorry you went through that.”
“I assumed something like that would only happen if I had some fucked-up trauma, but this was out of the blue…and so fucking heavy.”
His hand slides across the tabletop, even closer. I wish he would take my hand, but why would he? We’re fucking strangers. Maybe not strangers, but he definitely doesn’t know me well enough for that.
“How has it been since?” he presses in a gentle voice.
“After the hold, I stayed with Mom and Dad and worked with a therapist and psychiatrist to get my head on straight. Zoloft wasn’t much help. That still felt like a fog. Then Lexapro was better, and for the first time, the fog lifted, but it didn’t magically make everything go back to the way it was. I’m still not that person I was before…whatever the hell happened in my head. I don’t know that I ever will be again.”
When I decided to share this, I figured it was to get him to talk, but after going further than I thought I would, I’m wondering if some part of me wanted to share that with someone other than a therapist. Whatever my motive, there was something cathartic about getting it out, and the sympathy in his expression soothing.
Maybe I told him for the same reason I came over here today. Because whatever he’s been through, maybe he understands what I’m talking about.
His hand rests on the table, halfway between us. If he won’t take my hand, I could take his. Tell him that, whatever his shit is, I’m not gonna judge him. But after how he reacted to me taking his wrist, I’m not gonna risk it.
“Thank you for sharing that,” he finally says. “It’s a wicked thing when a mind turns on itself, isn’t it?”
His remark speaks to what I already knew: that he would understand.
“I guess it’s my turn now,” he goes on.
“You don’t have to share anything you’re uncomfortable with. I just thought it might make it easier.”
“I’m worried the moment I say it, you won’t believe any of this other stuff. Then I’m like, fuck it, you probably already don’t believe me. But I know that whole back-and-forth in my head is covering up the fact that I really don’t want to share that stuff with anyone.” He takes a breath, his gaze shifting about as he seems to grapple with this internal struggle.
I wish he knew how much I understood.
“Maybe a different question,” I say.
“No.” That comes out harsh. Given how compassionate he’s been throughout our conversation, it takes me by surprise. “It’s not fair to put you through all this and then keep it from you.” He takes another breath, a final moment to sit with his secret.
“Bipolar I,” he says, almost a whisper through his teeth, like it was a strain to share. “Mine manifests as manic episodes with a healthy dose of psychosis. I’d always had issues with my moods, but it got much worse when I got out on my own. Particularly paranoia. I take a mood stabilizer and an antipsychotic to regulate. Mike had his shit too. He was studying psych at WCC because he wanted to help people who dealt with the same shit. That’s the kind of guy he was.”
I can hear his admiration in the way he speaks about his brother…as well as the pain of his loss.
“Not sure if Roth mentioned it,” he goes on, “but after my bro disappeared, I started slipping with taking my meds. Just distracted, and then that turned into me telling myself I was fine now and didn’t need them. And that was a mistake. I made a huge mistake.”
“She mentioned one of Mike’s professors…”
He shakes his head. “No, he’s a professor at the school Mike attends, but not his professor. When he went missing, his landlord told me he needed the rent money, which I could cover for a month, and he let me in to search his things. I was hoping to find some explanation. Mike kept a planner, and he mentioned ‘Meet with Tolle’ twice the month before he disappeared, once on a Tuesday and once on a Thursday. No time on it. Just that note. When I was trying to make sense of it, I discovered that one of the professors in the English department at WCC was named Isaac Tolle. I mentioned this to Roth, who asked him if he knew my brother. He claimed he was helping him with some essays.”
He huffs. “My brother never needed any help with an essay. I know that sounds like a wild claim, but I fucking knew him. He was the reader and writer in the family. He’s the one who helped me with my essays growing up. I got the science and math, and he got that. That’s the way it was, so that was a red flag for me. I showed Roth his transcripts, how he didn’t need any help there, but Roth didn’t think much of it.” He eyes me suspiciously. “You don’t buy that either. I get that it might not make sense to someone who didn’t know Mike, but I know with everything in me that he was the kind of guy who figured out shit on his own. Just like me. That’s part of how we grew up. So even if he had been struggling, he wouldn’t have found someone…and for this, definitely not.”