“Oh.” He looked a little disappointed.
“And we can’t be high because I need to work the equipment, and you need to be coherent enough to mouth the lyrics.”
I pressed a remote, and his song filtered through the surround sound speakers. “It’s playing on a loop so every once in a while, look over at one of the cameras and lip-synch a line in that sexy way you do. Give it the full-on Seth Barrett smolder. You’re the seducer in this video, and I’m the innocent lamb.”
“So, how it was in the beginning?” Seth asked, still looking unsure.
“Yeah, in the Before.”
He tilted his head and studied me. “Is that what you call it?”
I glanced past him, not wanting to step into that minefield right then. “We should probably stay focused on the task at hand.”
Seth sighed, eternally disappointed in my inability to give more than “just a little bit.”
“You’re the boss,” he said stiffly.
I wore a private school outfit I’d found at one of Seth’s thrift stores—jacket, tie, button-down collared shirt, etc.—to go with my black skinny jeans. It took a while for Seth to go through the entire exercise of taking off my clothes, and he was so awkward about it that I told him we’d have to shoot it again. Seth smoked some pot, which helped him to relax, and I showed him some of the footage so he could get an idea of where we were going with it. The second take was far better. I could feel him getting under my skin with the way he’d look at me and touch me. We had to take a break after that and finish what we’d started off camera. Then we got high, which ended our workday.
I came back the next day, and we shot the scene a few more times. Seth was far more comfortable and had pretty much forgotten the cameras were filming. His hands were all over my body, owning me like his personal property, which was the theme of the song and the continual struggle between us. How much was too much? How far was I willing to let him go? At what point was I allowed to say no?
By the end of the third day, I knew I had enough raw footage. I’d add in miscellaneous B-roll of the band I’d taken at their shows or perhaps film one of their practice sessions so that it wasn’t just Seth on the video. I told Seth I’d finish it up after our camping trip.
That was our plan for coming off the drugs. I’d even told my parents the truth about where we were going; only I didn’t tell them why.
We found a place to camp on the Colorado River just outside of Austin. I didn’t want to camp at McKinney Falls because it had too many positive associations, and the next few days were sure to be hellish. We took a few precautions and made a few rules before embarking on this endeavor. I was to hide the keys to the van in the woods, and Seth was to hold onto our phones until they went dead, so that neither of us could double-cross the other in trying to get a fix. I even went so far as to search the van and pat Seth down to make sure he wasn’t hiding any contraband. He looked on with amusement and told me I’d better check his asshole too, with my tongue.
We spent the first day exploring the park and swimming in the river, even though the water was still a bit chilly. Seth played guitar by the campfire while I cooked dinner. We retired early to our tent, and after messing around some, Seth held me and dreamed out loud about Petty Crime and what he hoped they would accomplish. I still wished for all of his dreams to come true.
The next day we started suffering withdrawal. In our typical fashion, we were both trying to minimize our symptoms in order to be the stronger one. It was a game of chicken without any prize. That took us through most of the day, but by that evening, we started sniping at each other. We tossed and turned in our sleeping bags throughout the night, and on the third day, the effects from the withdrawal kicked in full force.
Seth tried every which way to get me to give him the keys to the van, resorting to saying some pretty nasty shit about my character—I was passive aggressive and sneaky and frigid. If he was the Queen of Hearts, then I was the fucking Queen of Icelandia, and what was wrong with me that I could be so devoid of feeling, like a fucking robot?
So, I gave him an earful as to what I thought about him as a boyfriend, which was that he was controlling and manipulative and selfish, that I could do better, and I swore if he didn’t get his shit together, I would. I also told him his fighting stance was weak as hell and if I wanted to, I could probably kick his ass. Then he tried to fight me, so I tackled him in a jiu-jitsu submission hold, and he accused me again of fucking Fabio.
We called each other names. We threw past grievances in each other’s faces. We exploited each other’s weaknesses out of spite and anger. We were the worst versions of ourselves, but in a way, it was also cathartic because we were able to get every little ill feeling we’d been harboring for months off of our chests.
By the fourth day, we were weak and dehydrated, but some of the physical pain and discomfort had subsided. We lay around listlessly and bemoaned our existence. Seth told me this was the stupidest idea I’d ever had, but it was without the same rancor as the day before. By the evening, we were both beginning to awaken from our stupor and realize that even though it had been ugly and disgusting, we’d both survived and come out on the other side of it together.
We were clean.
“This must be love,” Seth marveled while I prepared our first hot meal in three days.
“Why do you say that?” I was proud of him and of us. Nothing could get me down.
“Because nothing has ever felt so fucking awful before.”
“This isn’t love, Seth,” I told him with a bubble of optimism I hadn’t experienced in a while. “It’s sobriety.”
That night we made love for the first time in months with both of us being completely sober. No mind games and no power plays. Seth didn’t need to tell me he loved me because I felt it in every tender touch and sweet caress.
Like Before.
NOW
Dr. Denovo has me research the “cycle of abuse,” which would be a lot easier if we had access to the internet but instead involves me looking through a few of New Vistas’ musty old textbooks, which makes me wonder how people learned anything in their lifetimes without the expediency of Google.
The cycle of abuse is yet another revelation for me because while I was living it, I felt entirely alone. I feel a little stupid to find out that it’s a somewhat well-known and researched phenomena, but it does give me comfort to see something I experienced put into words. The cycle of abuse goes like this:
