But most importantly, I miss being me.
My heart shudders with sadness, and I know I need to move on, but when? When will this feeling of sadness and failure go away?
“Juliette, please, are you okay?”
I take a deep, shaky breath, and when I’m calm enough to get words out, I explain what happened with as little detail as possible. It poses a bit of an issue, but Mom never pries. She holds me, rocking me back and forth when more tears come.
She never tells me I’m overreacting or all will be okay; this time, she knows I’m hurting, and reassuring words won’t do anything to help.
After many more tears and thoughtful words from Mom, I regroup my thoughts and think long and hard about my future, but like always, I come up blank.
Maybe I’m not ready to move on, but what I do know is this morning, looking at those pictures of me was like ripping off a Band-Aid.
It had to be done to heal.
I guess the fancy new haircut didn’t relieve me of all my problems after all.
11
Juliette
My eyes are closedas I let the warm shower water trickle over my body in a relaxing, therapeutic way. My favorite sandalwood candle that reminds me of Harrison’s cologne is lit, with eucalyptus hanging from the shower head.
I needed this.
After watching a movie with Mom and an afternoon nap, I decided, for now, that I need to be happy with what Idohave in life rather than dwell on what I’m missing.
I do this sometimes…let myself feel the loss of my situation and then remind myself how lucky I am to be alive.
“You only live one life, Juliette. Live it up, laugh it up…either way, don’t fuck it up,”my dad would say, and my mom would yell at him for cursing.
He’d smile and shoot me a playful wink.
My mom is alive and, for the most part, well.
My best friend is happy for the first time with a man and is working herself to the bone to become a kick-ass girl boss one day.
The bakery is thriving. We might be moving locations, but our pastries and bread are well-liked and lucrative enough to live a decent life.
“Juliette? Are you in there?”
My mom interrupts my thoughts, and I throw my head back on the cold tile wall and groan. “Yes, Mom. I’m in the shower.”
“Are you feeling better?” she calls over the running water.
Is she serious right now? “Yes. I’ll be out in a minute,” I call back.
“Well, I’m going to go to the community garden. Did you want to join me?”
“Mom, please give me a moment. I’ll be out in just a second.”
She closes the door, and I let out a loud sigh. It’s been a year since I moved home and about three hundred and sixty-five days of interrupted alone time—in the shower, my room, even masturbating.
Yes…masturbating.
Can you even imagine?
Luckily, that time, my hand was under the blankets, and she had no idea what was going on.
