To say she’s morbidly obese is kind of an overstatement, I guess, but she’s definitely fat and getting fatter all the time. Plus, she wears these ridiculously tight clothes—baby doll T-shirts—low-waisted pants that must cut off her circulation completely—high-heeled sandals, her foot fat pinched and swelling so the veins bulge out underneath.
But it’s not like I’m judging her. I mean, I just get pissed off ’cause she’s always harassing me about food and my body size. Last time we met, she accused me of trying to maintain my skinniness ’cause I’m afraid of having a grown-up body and becoming an adult. She even has me showing my plate of food to the CAs at lunch and dinner so they can make sure I’ve finished everything.
It’s bullshit.
I sit down and cross my legs, then uncross them again.
I cross my right arm over so I’m grabbing my left shoulder.
I can feel Melonie staring at me, but I keep avoiding her eyes anyway.
“Look,” I try again, “I’m really sorry. That new girl was talking to me up at the smoke pit, and I guess I felt too bad just cutting out on her. I mean, she was starting to go into her story a little, and I didn’t wanna make her think I didn’t care or anything.”
Glancing up, I see that Melonie is definitely not smiling.
She shakes her head slowly back and forth, the pores on her cheeks catching the light, revealing a landscape of soft, downy hairs.
I can’t help wondering if she ever shaves them.
“Nic,” she says, startling me slightly, “it sounds to me like, once again, you’re letting your codependency get in the way of your treatment. Instead of stating your needs, you were content to sacrifice your own mental health—all because you didn’t want to offend someone you only met today. A girl someone, no less. Are you noticing a pattern yet?”
I nod my head slowly, basically just ’cause it seems appropriate.
“It sounds to me,” she goes on, “that this is exactly what you’ve been doing your whole life. Just look at your relationship with your biological mother—your relationship with Zelda. How many times are you going to forfeit your own needs before you have nothing else to give? And that includes your life, Nic, let’s not kid ourselves. Because obviously you don’t value yourself enough to arrive on time for an appointment with me that very well could be the very thing that finally saves you.”
If I could roll my eyes, I would.
She concludes by telling me that I’d never be late for scoring drugs like I would for therapy.
My neck’s getting sore from nodding so goddamn much.
“Yeah,” I stutter out. “That’s crazy. I never thought about it like that before. It’s so weird that you can be acting out on all these old behaviors without even realizing you’re doing it. I mean, you just keep repeating the same destructive pattern over and over.”
She holds her hand out, palm facing forward—gesturing “stop,” I figure—so I do.
“What are you trying to say, Nic, that I keep repeating these destructive patterns?”
I’m not sure what she’s getting at, and my head kinda cocks to one side like a dog’s would.
“Nic, you said, ‘You keep repeating them.’ But you’re not talking about me, are you? You’re talking about yourself. That’s why we encourage clients to use ‘I’ statements here. Each one of us needs to own what we’re saying about ourselves, understand?”
My head does its whole involuntary nodding thing again.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “Sorry, you’re right. I’m the one who keeps repeating these behaviors over and over. But I want to change. I really do. And I’ve been trying. I’ve been trying to take steps in that direction. And I know the first thing I have to do.”
I swallow real loud, choking on some invisible nothing. A kind of heat pushes up against the back of my eyes.
This isn’t supposed to happen.
All I’m doin’ is playing Melonie so she’ll give back some of my privileges.
But when I try to get the rest of the words out, my voice cracks on the first syllable.
The room is unfocused.
Instinctively, I sort of fold in on myself—crossing my arms like an X in front of me—holding on tight to both shoulders—shivering.
“The thing is,” I manage to get out, in a voice that seems very far away, “I’m breaking up with Zelda.”
The tears come—lower lip trembling—rocking back and forth in my chair—my knees pressed together—one foot stepping on the other.
“I have no choice,” I hear myself saying. “There’s just no way we’re ever gonna make it. I have to let her go. I have to. Y’all’ve been telling me, but I still couldn’t see it. I mean, I wouldn’t let myself see it. But now, man, now it’s like I can’t see anything else. She’s poison to me. Man, fuck, I threw away my whole life for her. But it wasn’t enough and it’ll never be enough and I have to end it now before I get sucked back in again. I fucking have to. There’s nothing left for us—not one goddamn thing. She’s a vortex, a black hole. I see it, man, I fucking see it. And I know it’s over. I know it’s the end. But, Christ…”
My voice catches again, and now I’m crying hard, with snot pouring down and my stomach convulsing.
“I’m so scared,” I say, feeling it. “I’m so goddamn scared. I mean, I love her. I love her fucking hard. And no matter how much I’ve tried to quit loving her, I just can’t cut her out—man, there’s no way. As long as I live, I know I’ll never find anyone who can compare to her. And I know I’ll never love anyone as intensely as I love her. And I know I’ll never stop dreaming about her—every day and night. I have to live with that—with fucking missing her for the rest of my life. I have to. And
