21. Johnny

It takes longer than I'd expected to move me to the new ward, but at last I can step outside and feel the sun on my face. I've surely spent some long days indoors, but I've never been barred from going outside. Being locked up has been an exercise in patience and moderating my thoughts. In a way, I feel stronger, like I can handle anything, even after just one night.

The new building's not all that different from the locked ward, except there's more furniture and things to do. A nurse helps me move the paper bags of my belongings into my new room, which has a chair and a dresser.

"There's a group session on codependence right now," she says. "Want to go?"

"I mean," I say, "why else am I here, other than to show up for what y'all are putting on offer? Not that I'm codependent."

She gives me a kind nod, likely thinking I don't know what I'm talking about. Which is true. I've heard the word ‘codependent,' but I haven't got a clue what it means.

The group session's started already, and the leader—therapist?—is talking. I take a seat in a chair at the back of the room, and he smiles to acknowledge me but doesn't point me out.

"Recovery is an emotional time, a volatile time, and it's easy for people to get bonded in situations like that," he's saying. "I'd suggest that you be cautious about getting too close to anyone while you're healing. People come and go over the course of a lifetime, and the reasons why they are in your life now may not be valid later."

Is that why Kurt and I are getting so close? Because I'm depressed?

I don't like to think that.

But I literally met him Saturday, and today's Tuesday. So I maybe need to watch out and not read too much into how I feel about him.

The leader asks, "How many of you have heard of the term ‘codependence'?"

Most of us raise our hands.

He nods and asks, "How many of you have heard of it and know what it means?"

A lot of hands go down.

"It's a term that gets thrown around a lot, and, like with many psychological terms, it's often used incorrectly. There are several definitions, but one I like—and that author Melody Beattie uses—is that people who are codependent let another person's behavior or situation affect them to the point where they're obsessed with controlling it. The other person may or may not be responsible for the situation—they could have a substance abuse problem, they could be emotionally unavailable or abusive, they could be physically or mentally ill or have other problems. But the codependent is preoccupied with gaining control over that behavior or situation. Stopping it. Fixing it. The codependent thinks the other person's life is their responsibility."

I sit up a little straighter. Wait, what?

"A lot of codependent people have lived through events that are traumatic and out of control. They respond to that by trying to find something they can control. Not in an intentionally harmful way, but as a means of feeling safe. They try to solve problems that aren't theirs to solve. They feel responsible for another person's happiness. If that person is happy, then they're happy. If that person is upset, then the codependent gets upset until that person feels better."

I'm not codependent. He ain't describing me.

"Codependents can exhibit a wide variety of behaviors. They can be anxious, depressed, repressed, angry, and controlling. Being codependent can result in all kinds of problems, from tolerating abuse in an attempt to keep a relationship going to being a martyr with long-term resentment from an unfulfilled desire to be recognized for their sacrifice."

I want to leave. I don't want to hear this.

I move to get up, but then he says, "Codependents are constantly trying to prove that they are good enough to be loved."

I feel like someone just smacked me in the chest. I can't get any air.

"A codependent person overdoes and attempts to be responsible for things that aren't their responsibility at all, or they can be extremely irresponsible when everything gets to be too much. They're trying to get their needs met in a way that doesn't work. Often, they're doing the wrong things for the right reasons—or the right things for the wrong reasons."

Good thing those meds are taking the edge off, or I'd be jumping outta my skin right now.

As he keeps talking about different types of trauma, my lip trembles. Every word he says feels like it applies to my life, and I want to get the fuck outta here. He's reminding me of nights after we left the ranch when we were drinking hot water for dinner. Mayonnaise sandwiches. Sleeping in the footwell of our car so my sister could have the back seat. Mama cryin' and not wantin' us to see, so she'd say she had allergies. Desperately wanting her to be happy so that I could be happy, too.

After what feels like hours, but is likely more like fifteen minutes, the therapist finishes his talk and offers us some books on codependency in case we want to learn more. I wanna set them on fire.

The only way out is through.

I take one of the books with me to my room and open it up. It might be the bravest thing I've ever done.

We go to breakout sessions after lunch, and I have an hour to meet with a therapist named Chantal in a private room in the ward.

After introductions, Chantal points to the codependence book I brought in with me. "Did you attend the session this morning?"

"Yes'm."

"And what did you think about it?"

I sigh. "They said a lotta stuff to think about."

"Like what?" She gives me a gentle, encouraging smile. That doesn't mean I wanna start chatting.

Shifting in the uncomfortable plastic seat, I stare at her for a while. Finally, I say, "I get the idea you're gonna just keep askin' questions, and I have the choice to either shut my trap or start singing. And since my husband's paying for this here place, I figure he should get his money's worth." The only way out is through. I pinch my nose. "Here goes. When I was a kid, we were very poor, and there was a time we were homeless. This was when my mama got sick. And when that leader was talkin' about codependency, all I could think about was how much I had to do to care for mama when I was a kid. That's different from caring for her now, mind."

"Did you want her to be caring for you instead?"

"No. I ain't selfish."

"In here, it's okay to be selfish. Or what you perceive as selfish. What did you think about having to be so responsible at such a young age? Did you resent her?" Chantal presses.

"Hell no," I say immediately.

"It's okay if you do, or did. Or if you resent the situation. It doesn't make you a bad person. Tell me some more about your childhood."

I stare at the wall. There's a poster about STDs and a faded photo of Yosemite National Park next to each other. I tell Chantal the things I already told Kurt about growing up and then about why I'm here.

When I'm done, she says, "I'm wondering what your identity is, other than caregiver. Who are you, Johnny?"

"No idea," I mutter.

"How did the presentation on codependence make you feel?"

"Pissed me off. 'Cause Mama's sick. She was sick, and she is sick. Chronic kidney disease. It made me feel like I was doin' somethin' wrong when I was doin' everything I could to get money to her. We were dumpster diving, and outdated food from the back of Walmart was too expensive. What else was I supposed to do?"

Chantal waits for me to finish my rant. Finally, she says, "I think you need to honor what you did to survive. But think about what you gave up. I'm not talking about blaming your mother for getting sick. The situation was the situation. Johnny, you were forced at an early age to be the parent. At a time when you were supposed to be worrying about math homework and the kid at school who caught your eye, you were worrying about putting food in your belly. And not just yours, but your mom's and your little sister's."

"Yeah. I was."

"So here's the thing. Some of what you were doing was being responsible. That's honorable and necessary, especially when you're caring for a sick relative. Where the line is, though—and I think we can agree that you crossed it or were about to—is thinking you should kill yourself so she could have surgery. Do you agree?"

I don't answer, and she lets me sit with my thoughts. Finally, I say, "The guy leading that session said a lotta things that bugged me, and some of what he said sounded like my situation and some didn't, and I don't know what's what."

Chantal tilts her head thoughtfully. "Part of recovery is sifting through information to determine what advice applies to you and what doesn't. There are a lot of explanations for why people feel the way they do, and deciding what fits for you can be complicated. If what you hear helps you and you connect with it, then see if it's useful for your recovery. If it isn't, it's okay to reject it." She leans forward in her seat. "With you, we know that taking care of your mother is noble and kind, and you have been very responsible for her, which is generally a good thing. But you need to understand that suicide would be taking it too far. You didn't answer me before, and this point is crucial. What are your thoughts on it?"

"Most of me still thinks the world would be better off without me," I admit.

"Then maybe we have more to talk about than your mother's illness."

I raise an eyebrow. "I know I got more going on. I filed a lawsuit for sexual harassment. My career's in the toilet. Things aren't going well."

"Then whatever you'd like to tell me, I'll listen. I think the biggest question is, are you focusing on your mother's illness to avoid something going on inside yourself?"

Later in the afternoon, I'm back in my room when there's a knock on the doorjamb. I found out real quick that if I closed my door, they'd open it every ten minutes or so to check on me, so it's easier just to leave it open. "You have visitors," a nurse says with a smile.

"I do?" Is it Kurt? He said visitors, though. Plural.

"Do you want to see them? Come on."

I follow him down the gleaming hall into a common room with seating and low tables and come face-to-face with three tall men wearing suits and ties.

Thankfully, I like all of these well-dressed men. They're my lawyers: Danny Villase?or, Noah Weston, and August Ramirez. Noah and August are the founders of the firm. Danny's my lead attorney. All of them are the sort of people you wanna know. Them being here must, again, be Kurt's doing, and I'm obliged to him for telling them what was going on so I didn't have to.

"Johnny," Danny says, and he holds out his arms. While I suppose it could seem weird that I'm hugging my lawyers, I'm told that lawyers are people, too, and I believe it. At least with respect to this particular firm. "How are you doing?"

I raise an eyebrow. "I've been asked that a lot in the past little bit here, so I hope all y'all will excuse me while I come up with an answer. The truth is, not great, because, well, I'm in a mental hospital. That must mean that something's wrong." I pause. "But I think I have hope."

As I say it, I realize I might actually be telling the truth.

Noah's eyes visibly well with tears, and August, his husband, reaches over and takes his hand.

"We discussed it in the car on the way here, and we feel like we let you down," August says. "You're going through all this turmoil with the lawsuit, and we should've referred you to a therapist. We're truly sorry."

"Don't be sorry. My mental health ain't your responsibility."

"But we could've predicted that this would be challenging and done something about it, and the fact that we didn't … that's bothering me." Noah's sincerity is breathtakingly sweet. I'm not sure how someone so innocent got to be a lawyer—and a damn good one, too—but I guess anything is possible.

"Well, nothing happened," I say. Then I cringe, because a lot of bad stuff damn near happened. "Okay, that's not a hundred percent true. But it ain't your fault. Even if you'd told me to get my head shrunk, I probably wouldn't have listened. Don't blame yourself for my issues."

"It's hard not to. We know how difficult the depositions and hearings have been on you," Danny says.

"It's okay," I say. "Y'all are trying to help. I'm grateful you're here. Not sure many lawyers make house calls."

"More than you'd think. We visit a lot of people in the hospital or at their homes if they can't come to us. We just don't talk about it much," August says.

We sit down and chat for a while. "I still can't believe that y'all came all the way up here to see me," I say after a bit.

"We were in the neighborhood," Danny says with a grin.

"We're your friends, and we wanted to make sure you were really okay," Noah says. Just then, there's another knock at the (open) door.

Kurt's standing in the doorway, smiling at me tentatively. He's so handsome and sweet and … there for me. Fuck that "don't form bonds during recovery" bullshit. Far as I'm concerned, that only applies to me getting close to other patients. I wanna bond with my husband.

He's positively edible in his dark blue flat-front slacks and light blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Especially with his mop of hair and sexy forearms. I always thought your heart going pit-a-pat was an exaggeration, but apparently not.

"We won't keep you," Noah says.

I realize I'm on my feet. The three lawyers get up, too, and all shake my hand, then hug me as well. "You got this," August says. "We're rooting for you."

"Oh!" Noah says. "Sam mentioned that your mom's been having issues with her medical insurance. We want to look into that. Do you mind if we talk with her?"

I swallow hard. "No, I don't mind. Thank you." Once again, Kurt's doing his magic.

They leave Kurt and me alone in the room. Kurt stands there awkwardly for a moment, and I bound over and pull him into a hug. "You came back," I whisper against the top of his head.

"Always," he says, squeezing me around my middle. He already smells like home.

He looks up at me, and I kiss him as naturally as if we're an old married couple. He seems surprised but kisses me back. "I missed you," I say.

I don't deserve you.

Damn. I'd hoped those mean thoughts might've gone away with the anxiety drugs. Seems not.

"I missed you, too," he says, gazing into my eyes. "And you kept your promise."

"Still alive, yeah."

"Promise me again?"

No. I should just finish the job. "I promise to stay alive until I see you again," I tell him, trying to keep my voice level.

Kurt nods in approval. "Thanks, babe. I'll hold you to it." We sit down where I'd been sitting with the other guys. "Tell me how things are going."

I'm a loser.

"Better with a change of clothes. Thank you kindly." I get him caught up with the events since I checked in, including my close (but behind glass) encounter with the mountain lion. Someone yells from down the hall, and I wince, feeling self-conscious. "Aren't you weirded out by this place?" On his way in, I'm sure he passed by people talking to themselves and all kinds of other behavior that doesn't fit with societal norms.

"Why would I be?"

"Well, the people here act kinda different," I admit. "I hate to say it, but there's a reason for the stigma around mental illness."

I suck. I'm wrong. I don't deserve to live.

Kurt shrugs. "They're still people. Probably trying their best to get through the day, just like the rest of us."

"Maybe I'm feeling a little ashamed I'm here … and that I brought it up," I say. "Like I wanna separate myself from them, say I'm not as weird as they are. How many stigmas can I have at once? Gay porn star locked up in a mental institution—it's almost the punchline to a joke."

All I've ever been is a joke. I really should just kill myself.

As usual, Kurt treats me with more care and generosity than—well, than anyone I can think of. Certainly more than I give myself. "That's a natural inclination. I'd rather you be honest about your thoughts and feelings than shove them down. When we censor ourselves too much, we end up repressing feelings we need to process—and that keeps us from healing. One of the things I want to talk about in my campaign is better mental health care. Our brain chemistry is no different from any other physical ailment, and yet we treat it with such secrecy and, like you say, stigma."

I nod. "Very true."

The more Kurt talks, the more … almost normal he makes me feel, even in circumstances so far outside my regular life. He makes me believe I could get better. That this might work. I'm fighting those voices that want to tear me down, that want me to remove myself from the earth.

And none of it would be happening if this amazing man hadn't sat down next to me at that bar Saturday night.