I’ve felt guilty about living with my mom these past few months, but I’m thankful she let me stay. Now that the stuff with the house is wrapped up, I’m ready to have a place of my own again. I found a furnished two-bedroom apartment on a short-term lease close to her place. Renting again sucks after owning my house, but having a space that’s mine, even temporarily, feels freeing.
Therapy has been more challenging and rewarding than I expected. Aiden encouraged me to start, and with what he said that night on the beach—how he’d done the work and come out better on the other side—I finally allowed myself to try. Heather used her connections and found me an LGBTQ+ affirming trauma therapist with an excellent reputation.
It’s slow, ugly, necessary work. The early sessions were brutal, leaving me flayed open every time I walked out of Cynthia’s office.I’d been living in survival mode for so long that I didn’t realize how bad my mental health had become. But for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m making progress.
We’ve covered the full extent of my messiness, from my toxic relationship with Ray, the trauma of the assault and its aftermath, my parents’ divorce, to how I carried the guilt of being the cause.
At least that’s what I thought. Living with my mom has allowed us to have long talks about ourselves and get to know each other as adults. It’s incredible how, when you’re a kid, you can be completely unaware of what is going on in your parents’ lives.
I believed their marriage was perfect until I was caught with Aiden’s dick in my mouth, which embarrassed my dad so much he could barely look at me. My mom defended me, and I thought that was their downfall.
But that was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. Their marriage had been on thin ice for years, and I didn’t even realize it. According to my mom, my dad changed completely after we moved to Rochester and started attending Reg Amato’s church. My dad idolized him and hung on his every word. He bought into the idea that women were meant to serve and submit to their husbands, and it caused a wedge between them.
When he lost his job, and my mom was the only one with a paycheck, he felt emasculated. The only reason he took the position in Portland was to provide for his family again. It was ultimately a demotion, and he hated the job. My mom didn’t want to leave Rochester, but he didn’t give her a choice. Their marriage was doomed long before what happened with me.
Today I’m back at it, revisiting my deepest hurts, fears, and personal misbeliefs that plague my mind. It’s not the most enjoyableway to spend an hour, but I’ve learned to value the time I spend understanding myself better.
“Okay, Jay,” Cynthia begins, folding her hands. “In our last session, you mentioned something about the two weeks you were alone with your dad after moving to Portland. I’m curious about that. What happened during that time?”
I knew I had to face this eventually. I let out a deep sigh. “The details are fuzzy. I remember it sucked. I was devastated about losing Aiden. But the rest feels blocked somehow.”
She nods. “Our minds can be a powerful defense mechanism when traumatic events happen,” she says. “Sometimes the hurt is so overwhelming, the brain will shield itself from it. Let’s try working our way backward. Why were you by yourself with your dad?”
I think back to the far reaches of my mind. “After everything that happened in Rochester, I had to move to Portland instead of staying there, and my parents decided it would be best if I came straight here with my dad because he was starting his new job.”
Thinking back to those first days without Aiden makes me feel sick. It was so painful; I thought I was going to die. He meant the world to me, and then he was ripped away, and I was devastated.
“Jay?” Cynthia asks.
I must have zoned out.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. This could bring up some hard feelings.”
“What was I saying?” I shake my head. “Oh yeah. My mom stayed behind to finish selling the house and pack up. My dad and I stayed in a residence hotel during those first couple of weeks. Since everything had been taken away from me, all I could do was sitin the room all day, watching TV while my dad went to work. At night… that’s where it gets fuzzy.”
“Okay, let’s dig into that. Think about that hotel room. What did it look like? How did it smell? What sounds did you hear?”
I take a few moments to settle into that place. I spent many hours there during one of the worst times of my life.
“It was like a small apartment, with a separate bedroom and a pullout couch I slept on, and a small kitchenette. It was musty, with a faint smell of weed. I spent most of the time watching movies on the crappy television. I think I slept a lot, too.”
“That’s good,” Cynthia says. “So, when your dad returned from work, what would you do?”
“We ate a lot of takeout since neither of us cooked,” I remember. “He made me sit with him at the little table…”
There’s a growing emptiness in my stomach as the memories stir feelings I don’t want to face. I’m not sure how much time passes before Cynthia gently shakes me out of my thoughts.
“Jay,” she says softly. “What are you remembering?”
I let out a shaky sigh as tears sting my eyes. “My dad’s voice. The terrible things he said to me.”
“What words did he use?”
I shake my head, reluctant to voice them. How could the man who helped me catch my first fish and coached my little league team, who taught me to drive, and took endless pictures of us on family vacations, say those terrible things to his only son?
“I know this hurts,” Cynthia says. “But saying the words out loud will weaken their grip on you. Let’s bring them into the light so we can see them for what they truly are.”
