It’s a story I’ve heard before.
I mean, it’s the same story millions of girls could tell.
She was going to school out in California—college, that is—studying art. You know, illustration. It was the middle of her sophomore year. She was sharing a small house off campus with some other girls. Well, basically her friends started partying all the time, and she was surrounded by all these drunk-ass people. It spiraled out of control. She wouldn’t tell me what happened, exactly; she just said she felt pissed off and alone. Her friends turned against her.
Sue Ellen had never felt she was popular anyway.
So she was left with absolutely nobody.
She’d had this idea that college was gonna be about learning, and that the other students were going to be all excited about knowledge and ideas. Instead it turned into a free-for-all. She couldn’t relate to any of it. And she began to feel more and more like there had to be something wrong with her—like she was the mistake, like she was the fucked-up one. And so she withdrew even further into herself.
She transferred to a local art school in Charleston. She moved in to her own place there. She started smoking pot and drinking more—hanging out with any guy who’d give her even the slightest bit of attention. She spiraled, destructed, dropped out of her classes. And finally, just before Christmas, at home with her family, she decided she couldn’t take it anymore. She wanted to disappear. She wanted to make it all disappear.
She lay in her bed.
Quiet.
Waiting.
The struggle of living life just didn’t seem like it was worth it anymore.
“I try to look at everything as a cost-benefit ratio,” she says, pulling her knees up closer against her chest. “And at that point, the cost was definitely outweighing the benefit.”
So she thought about how she could make it go away.
She was ready.
But her mom sensed something—she was worried about her.
“She lives her whole damn life in denial,” Sue Ellen tells me. “But at that point, even she couldn’t deny what was happening to me.”
And so Sue Ellen’s mom was able to convince her to see a doctor.
And it was the doctor who suggested long-term treatment.
Both Sue Ellen and her mom fought the idea at first, but things just kept getting worse.
She was out of options and out of ideas.
She was desperate.
She had nothing left.
And so eventually, finally, she agreed.
She said yes to the doctors and yes to her mom and yes to giving it just one more try.
Anyway, she figured, it couldn’t possibly make things any worse.
So two weeks later she was boarding the plane to Phoenix.
And now here she is—rocking back and forth on the ground next to me.
A girl from Charleston, South Carolina.
I remember something I once wrote about Zelda—something from a short story I’d never shown to anyone.
I wrote that my ultimate sexual fantasy with Zelda was just to hold her while she cried.
It was a fantasy I would later fulfill with her.
Many fucking times.
But here, now—close enough to Sue Ellen to feel her, without really feeling her—I remember that same desire.
I want to hold her.
I want to be there for her.
But for now all I have are my words.
I mean, they’re meaningless, but I speak them anyway.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I mean, fuck—people are such assholes, right? And we’re so goddamn sensitive to it—like we just feel everything so much… more than normal people do. You know what I mean?”
She nods, pulling her knees up tight against her chest.
“And, look,” I tell her, “you don’t have to be ashamed about that shit. I mean, not to freak you out or anything, but when I was younger, I used to be a sex worker… you know? And, man, I couldn’t talk about that with anyone. ’Cause the thing is, for me, hustling wasn’t even really about money. I mean, sure, I was strung out and living in a goddamn park, so it’s not like I had a whole lotta options. But still, you know, more than just the money, it was about trying to feel like I was actually worth something—like, if guys wanted to sleep with me and would even pay me for it, then maybe I’d finally feel beautiful, or confident, or whatever. Of course, that’s not how it worked. I mean, I just ended up hating myself even more after that. Plus I got beat up, raped. I woke up in the ER on life support. And I was so scared all the time, you know, just fucking terrified.”
My voice catches suddenly.
I swallow loudly.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I didn’t mean to start rambling like that. All I’m trying to say is that, you know, as corny as this sounds, you’re not alone. And, I have to say, I really do believe that this place can help. So, anyway, I don’t know, I’m really happy you’re here. And, uh, I’m really happy to have met you. And I guess I just feel this connection with you. And, uh, I really gotta shut up now. I mean, it’s way too early. And I don’t even know what I’m talking about, anyway.”
Thankfully, Sue Ellen laughs at that.
She snorts a bunch of snot up her nose.
She wipes away still-wet tears with the back of her hand.
“No,” she says. “I appreciate it. I really do.” She laughs again. “I mean, thank you. And, uh, I’m glad you’re here, too. Really.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh at that.
“All right, well, enough of that,” I tell her. “Let’s talk about light shit, okay?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Light shit.”
She pushes herself up off the ground—turns—looks back at me. “You coming?” she asks.
I nod.
Our eyes lock together.
I tell myself this is what I want.
I mean, I know it’s the best thing.
We can make it work.
I just know we can.
And everything’s gonna be all right.
Ch.7
When I open the door, the cold rushes immediately into the lodge, as though it
