Gracie
Ifeel like I’m unraveling, like the spool keeping me together is unwinding. I can feel the pressure now. It’s been three days since the arrest. Three days since I found out that Donna and Kate are pregnant with the guys’ babies. Three days since everyone became wary around me. That or I’m just fucking imagining it. I wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case, in all honesty. They’re trying to be careful not to accuse me outright again, but the damage has already been done.
I can feel the desire burning inside of me. It started as embers being sparked. Then the flames finally stoked something and have slowly been rising, blistering my insides, ready to ignite my entire being.
Nobody has done a damn thing to me in three days, and I’m about to snap. Not because I’ve been left alone, but I can still feel the tension even with apologies on their tongues. Maybe it’s just me. I don’t know. I wouldn’t be surprised if this is all concocted in my head. Mom used to say that I overthink things and let a small scenario blister until it pops into something far worse than it was initially meant to be. Because I pick at it until it does that, leaving behind a hole, a crater. Sometimes, one that bleeds or oozes.
I need to shut my mind down. I must get a grip on myself, or I’m going to drive myself fucking crazy one of these days.
“Here you are,” my therapist greets cheerfully as she reenters the room and hands me a Styrofoam cup of water from the jug out in the hall.
I don’t know what took her so long, but I don’t question it as I take the cup. I can only stare into the clear liquid and imagine plunging myself in for a quick dip. I think swimming in ice-cold water would do me some good to knock sense into my head. Plus, it's better than drowning myself in drugs and booze to make the torrent of thoughts disappear. It might even douse the flames burning white-hot inside of me. I want them to stop. I need them to stop. I feel so suffocated, though; it isn’t even funny.
“So, what’s on your mind, Gracie?” she asks as she settles in her leather chair and crosses her legs.
I look up at her now, taking note of how pretty she is. Long legs and heels to die for. Red heels that match the outfit hugging her body. She has lines, but otherwise, she doesn’t even look close to fifty. I can only stare at her like I usually do for the first ten or so minutes. I know I’m supposed to talk and unload everything, but I can’t get myself to do so half the time. Soon, I will figure out what little tidbit I want to talk about and roll with it for a good forty-five minutes until I can get the fuck out of here. It’s what I do every time, without fail. I pick and choose my topics.
It might not be a good thing now that I think it over, though. Because to get proper help, I need to talk about things. I need to let it out. I can’t do that with the guys because they won’t understand. I can’t do it with my parents because they’ll panic and fret over me. And definitely not Marcy. She’s already got enough shit to deal with. Well, not really shit. But her life is on track, and whining to her will only deter her for a while, which could harm her direction in life. That isn’t fair to her.
I have to tell my therapist. It’s her job to listen, to give me ways to cope and figure out life. She can give me ideas to feel it all out. It’s what she’s supposed to do, paid to do. I think that’s why it’s even harder to want to open up to her. Her concern for me isn’t genuine, and it pisses me off. I want someone to listen who is actually going to be there for me in the long run. I’m just a payday to this woman, and because of that, I see no point in even bother talking to her.
“Gracie,” she says gently, but it’s still a sharp reminder. “Do you just want to sit here for an hour then?”
I tilt my head back and look up at the ceiling. There are a few cracks, but they are hardly noticeable if you aren’t looking for them. “We’re moving out of the apartment.” I finally pick a topic.
“Really?” She doesn’t even sound surprised. Robert probably already told her. “And how is that making you feel?”
A redundant question. A merry-go-round that comes with these sessions. I drop my head and shrug, drawing up my shoulders high before dropping them heavily. “It’s one less thing for daddy to have to pay for.” I can detect the bitterness in my words and have no doubt she senses it as well.
Questions flicker in my therapist’s icy blue eyes as she leans forward, forgetting about her notebook to jot down notes and her computer to type up my diagnosis or whatever it is she does on there. Her attention is one hundred focused on me right now. It’s something of a relief.
“What do you mean by that, Gracie?”
She seems so real, like she truly wants to pry and just chat as if we were old friends. I know better, though. She just wants to pinpoint my issues, maybe put me on some pills, and have me keep me coming here so she can have money in her pocket.
I still speak, though, the words tumbling out now. “He pays for these sessions. He paid for the apartment, made a deal with the guys to help me stay out of trouble in exchange for him paying for it. He paid for groceries and monthly expenses and even gave me an ‘allowance.’” It bubbles out now, spewing forth without my consent, but since I’ve already started, I can’t fucking stop. “I borrowed some money from my niece to pay a debt back and couldn’t repay her, so he did because it was from her college fund. She lent me the money, and now he thinks I can’t use money wisely.” I hesitate for a split second. “I guess he’s somewhat right. I’ve never exactly been good at managing money, but it was an accident, you know? I didn’t mean to get in the hole.” My voice cracks, and I have to pause to take a slow breath, trying to pull myself together so I don’t completely lose it.
Clearing my throat, I remember the cup I’m holding and take a long drink to distract myself momentarily and have an excuse not to talk, even if for a moment.
She doesn’t say anything while I do this. When I put the empty cup on the side table next to the couch, Mariam is sitting back, watching me intently and waiting for me to continue. That’s what she does. She knows if she interrupts, I will lose whatever nerve I’ve somewhat conjured up to talk and just shut down.
“I don’t like him paying for everything. I’m twenty-three. I’ll be twenty-four in December, and my daddy is paying for everything.” I give a bleak smile, shoulders sinking as I shake my head miserably. “I really hate it. It makes me feel like a kid. I can’t do things that normal adults my age do. I don’t have friends anymore, friends that live here. My best friend is leaving again with her boyfriend because their life is together. I’m happy for her, really. It’s just she knows what she wants, and she goes after it. She got it. She got her dream job, and here I am, barely having graduated high school, and I still don’t even know how I managed that one. I’ve done some college, and I just can’t do it anymore, I despise it, but I don’t know what else to do with my life.” I draw in a shaky breath and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to keep the tears from exploding this time.
This is when Mariam takes her chance. I’m already so far in that I might just not close up without her putting her two cents in. “Well, what do you like doing, Gracie? On the side, even as a hobby?”
I shake my head and open my eyes, giving her a watery smile. “I used to like pottery. You know, molding clay on turn tables or whatever. My mom said I was really good at it and should get back into it, but I don’t know if I should.”
Her eyebrows furrow together, and her lips press together in confusion. “And why do you think that?”
I shrug. “It’s a hobby. What good is a hobby when I need money?”
Mariam sits forward in her chair and smiles at me kindly. “Some of the best businesses out there started as hobbies, Gracie. You can get back into it. See how that goes just to find your love for it again. If you feel confident, there are tables you can rent at flea markets and county days where you can sell your stuff. Make your own money.”
I stare at her in surprise. I hadn’t thought about that. I’ve never even considered the possibility of selling anything I make. Is that even possible? If Mariam says it is, then it has to be. It has to. Because she wouldn’t be telling me to do this if it wasn’t, even with my daddy’s money filling her pockets. I know that for a fact. At least she’s honest.
After that, I open up more. I tell her about the guys, all five of them. I tell her about my confusion regarding the relationship, how I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do or press forward. How for the last three days, the house has been open and shut, with all five in and out constantly. I tell her about my desire to be with them all and how I feel so wrong about that but so right at the same time. She tells me to follow my heart and allow myself to be in the moment. To not let it go if this is what my heart wants. Not everybody is the same, and nobody can tell me who I’m allowed to love and definitely not how many at once.
We talk about my AA meetings. I honestly feel like it’s been an eternity since I’ve gone to one and will have to later today. We talk about adding an extra day, that doing pottery on the side and eventually as a money maker will make that schedule a little easier. So, I don’t have to stress about meetings around a work schedule.